Faithless Is He
by bsmog
Summary: Draco Malfoy discovered that some things that seemed lost forever could be found in the most unexpected places. Will the magic he and Harry found on a mountaintop in Africa survive the return to London? Sequel to Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost. EWE.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **__This is the sequel to Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost, and picks up not long after that ended. If you haven't read that, you might want to do that first; this will make much more sense if you have. I can't promise as frequent a posting schedule just yet, although I do plan for a regular one. If something happens to the routine, I'll be sure and let you know._

_Thanks as always to the usual cast of suspects. You know who you are, and you rock my socks._

_All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended._

"I'm going to kill you, Potter," Draco growls. "I take back everything I said before, about being glad to find you and all of it, you can go back to your mountain without me."

To Draco's very great consternation, Harry, who is hustling him down the narrow aisle of this absolutely fucking insane Muggle contraption that's supposed to get them back to London in one piece, only laughs and pushes harder with the hand that's on Draco's back. Fine. Threats won't work. He'll try something else. He's not above begging, no matter what Malfoys do or do not do.

No Malfoy has ever found himself about to take off in an _aeroplane_, because if he had, Draco knows the _Malfoys do not beg_ rule would have been broken long ago.

"Fine, Harry, you win. I'll stay. We'll stay here. We'll stay here and you never have to leave, I swear, just don't make me do this. Please don't make me do this!" He is babbling, and he doesn't care.

"Draco, honestly. It's perfectly safe, just sit down. Do you want to be next to the window so you can see out?" Harry's voice is irritatingly soothing, as is the hand at Draco's back, and he has the irrational urge to tape the man's mouth shut and tie his hands to his sides, just so Draco can have his tantrum in peace.

"See _out_?" He squeaks. "Merlin's beard, Harry, are you insane? Why would I want to see out? So I can watch the ground as I plummet towards it in this ridiculous machine?"

Harry rolls his eyes and slides into the seat next to the window, pulling Draco down by the arm into the one next to him. After another argument, this one about the piece of fabric that's meant to act as a safety belt - "Oh please, what the bloody hell good is _this_ going to do when this thing falls out of the sky?" - and several threats by Harry to hex him that Draco begins to consider as mercy offers, he is sitting with his fingers gripping the armrests so hard he thinks he'll leave marks in the metal, his eyes shut tight and his jaw clenched as the engines roar to life.

"_Harry_," he whines, and Harry mercifully does not laugh at him, nor does he flinch when he pries the fingers of Draco's left hand off the armrest and instead links them with his own, and Draco squeezes them so hard that Harry's hand turns white.

"Draco, look at me," Harry's voice is quiet. Draco shakes his head petulantly, eyes shut again as he feels himself pressed into the back of his seat by the force of the acceleration of this death trap he's sitting in. "Draco. Oh _honestly_!"

He hears Harry huff out the last part, but is surprised when it's followed by strong fingers on his jaw and then Harry's mouth on his. He resists the kiss at first, still refusing to open his eyes, but his self-control, already weak in all things related to Harry Potter, is further dampened by fear, and he realises that kissing Harry might be just the distraction he needs. He gives in, parting his lips and concentrating only on the slide of Harry's tongue against his and the ragged softness of Harry's chapped lips.

He slides a hand up to run his fingers through Harry's ridiculous hair - which is not really that ridiculous and really does suit him and Draco rather likes it, though he will only admit it under penalty of death or in a sex-induced haze - and Harry lifts his own hand up to run feather-light fingertips down a line from Draco's ear to his shoulder and back, leaving a trail of gooseflesh on his neck and making him kiss Harry harder. When at last Harry pulls away, Draco is breathless but a fraction less panicked, and he risks opening his eyes. Harry, for his part, looks smug, though also a little glazed and rumpled, and he's shifting in his seat in a way that makes Draco certain he's not the only one who quite enjoyed that kiss.

"There, not so bad then, is it?" Harry says, and Draco realises the force that was driving him back as they lifted into the air is gone, and the whine of the engine has decreased just a little.

Draco glares. He will not admit it's not so bad, partly because it really _is_ so bad, and partly because even if it wasn't - and it _is_ - he wouldn't give Harry the satisfaction.

Their final three days in Africa had passed too quickly, running together in a blur of sex and baths and showers and stolen kisses in the backseat of the Land Rover as they marveled at the strangest mix of animals Draco has ever seen. The night before they were to return to Moshi so Harry could greet his newest clients and send them up the mountain with another guide, they sat on the balcony in the chaise lounge that had quickly become Draco's favourite piece of furniture, and Harry hesitantly first broached the subject of their return trip to London.

It hadn't occurred to Draco that the Portkey Office was out of the question, mostly because he hadn't really wanted to think about going back at all. But Harry was right, the second he registered himself at any Magical office, the whole of wizarding England would know he was on his way back, and they would undoubtedly be greeted by Rita Skeeter and a mob of adoring Potter fans. Or raging wizards demanding to know where their Saviour has been all these years. Either way, Harry wanted none of it, and Draco can't blame him.

Convincing Draco that flying _the Muggle way_ was the best option hadn't been so easy. There may have been shouting, and possibly some stomping around the small balcony, much to Harry's amusement. Now that Draco thinks back on it, he probably _did_ look ridiculous, pacing back and forth in front of Harry and flinging his arms this way and that, naked as the day he was born. It had not been his finest moment, and, to add insult to injury, it had done no good, because here he sits, in a bloody _aeroplane_, poised to fall miles out of the sky at any moment.

He crosses his arms and huffs, and this time Harry does laugh at him before leaning over to graze his teeth over Draco's jaw, just hard enough to make Draco hiss, before pressing a not-quite-repentant kiss over the spot.

"Don't be such a baby, you know we'll be fine." Harry says, and pulls a folded newspaper from the pocket in the seat ahead of him. Draco looks at him incredulously as he opens it, and when that fails to get his attention, Draco reaches up and pulls the paper down, leaning over and twisting sideways so his head is where the paper had been in front of Harry's face a moment before.

"Listen, Potter," he says, and Harry rolls his eyes at the use of his surname, "you got me on this thing. I could have just as easily portkeyed home just like I planned, but you insisted we do this the Muggle way. So here I am, and don't think you'll get away with ignoring me for the next twelve hours. You've no idea just how annoying I can be."

At this, Harry laughs. "Actually, I think I've a very good idea of just how annoying you can be, unless you've forgotten the first seven years we knew one another." He obligingly sets down his newspaper though, and looks at Draco indulgently. "But rather than revisit that version of you, fine, I'll stop reading. For now. I'm all yours."

Draco shudders pleasantly at the thrill that goes through him at Harry's words, even though he knows he's skewing the context. _I'm all yours_. Those words course through his mind just about every time he looks at Harry, and he's powerless to stop them or silence them, and it's all he can do to keep from blurting them out at wholly inappropriate times, like at the breakfast table. Or right now.

"Draco?" Harry is looking at him curiously, and Draco shakes himself.

"Well I haven't the first idea _how_ you're going to entertain me, I just intend to _be_ entertained," he manages, his voice almost sounding normal in his ears. "It's a long flight, and it's stuffy in here, and I know you think it's stupid, because we fly around on brooms all the time without a thought. But there is no magic holding us up here, if Ron and his chatter about lift and thrust and wing flap thingys is to be believed, and if you don't distract me, I'm going to start panicking again."

He knows he's teetering dangerously close to whinging again, but he doesn't do terrified especially well, and _this_ is terrifying. Harry chooses that moment to kiss him again, and he's by turns irritated at the man for thinking that he can just kiss Draco and everything will be fine, and annoyed with himself, because suddenly everything _is_ fine. For the thousandth time in an hour, Draco curses the effect Harry has on him, though not very hard and not with much conviction, because Harry is doing the most wonderful thing with his tongue, and...

"Bloody hell, Harry," he gasps as he reluctantly wrenches himself away from Harry's grip. "Do you think you can just kiss me every time I need distracting all the way back to London?"

Harry smirks. "I can think of better ways to distract you, but most of them would get us arrested when we land, so I suppose kissing will just have to do."

Draco feels his face flush, not because of what Harry is suggesting, because frankly, _that_ would be lovely right about now, but that he is suggesting it at all. He's not sure when Harry became a flirt, because the boy he knew in school wouldn't have known a good line if it bit him in the arse. Truthfully, he doesn't always know one now, but the almost-possessive look that comes across his face and the brightness of his eyes and the note of _Guide Harry_ that enters his voice combine to have a very immediate effect on the tightness of Draco's trousers, and he can't help the blush that accompanies it.

"You have a filthy mind," Draco says. "I see five years away didn't teach you any manners."

At this, Harry laughs aloud, and Draco has to laugh with him, because it's such a wonderful sound. "I don't know, I think you rather like my filthy mind." He says, nudging Draco with his shoulder. "But perhaps I'll let you teach me some manners, if you think you can."

Draco snorts. "I think you're probably hopeless."

"Oh, I don't know, I think it's probably just a matter of finding the right incentive," Harry says, bringing his face close to Draco's again. "I think you'll find I'm quite a fast learner when I want to be."

Draco rolls his eyes but leans forward to close the distance between their mouths again, because, as he's taken to saying so often to himself, this is what he's waited for after all. Why wait another moment?

"Is this how the two of you plan to pass the whole flight?" Hermione's voice is amused from somewhere over Draco's shoulder, and he pulls away from Harry to look up at her, trying vainly to regulate his breathing.

"Have you got a better suggestion?" he asks her wryly, and she grins.

"I was only asking. Harry, Ron and I were wondering if you'd had any time to think about Grimmauld Place. Not to be pushy, take all the time you need, really."

She looks uncertain, and Draco turns to look at Harry, because this is really her way of asking if he wants to come and stay in their flat, which is small but cosy, and Draco knows she and Ron would welcome Harry in a heartbeat, but the addition of a third person into their lives will take some getting used to, no matter what they say. Still, Draco knows Harry is grateful for the offer, because Grimmauld Place is his by rights, though somehow it's never stopped admitting Ron and Hermione, and even Draco in Harry's absence, but Draco knows that after five years, it only holds memories Harry probably doesn't want back. The trouble is, it's the only home Harry's got in London, and if he doesn't want to go there, well...they'll get to that when the get to it. Which he guesses is now, since she's asking.

"It's all right, Hermione," Harry says, "I suppose there isn't anything for it now, since we're on our way. I think, if it's okay with you," he's looking at Draco now, all the smug certainty of a moment before gone from his face, "I'd like to stay with Draco for a few days while I get used to the place again."

Draco grins, because he's been hoping Harry would say just that, but hasn't wanted to push the issue. He has a flat in London, not far from Grimmauld Place in fact, and he told Harry a couple of days ago that he was welcome for as long as he wanted - _forever, gods, longer than that_, he'd thought as he said it - if he wasn't ready to go back just yet. Which he'd known Harry wasn't, because the look of apprehension that crossed his face as soon as Grimmauld Place came up in conversation was the same one he got when he talked about the war and his nightmares and Miles and every other painful thing that had happened to him in his too-few years. Harry had nodded gravely and thanked him and strode out onto the balcony in the dying light of the setting sun and stared over the crater for a long time, not saying a word until Draco reminded himself that being alone isn't always what they want, it's just what they're used to. He'd gone outside to stand quietly behind Harry, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder and breathing in the clean, soapy smell of his hair until Harry took both of Draco's hands and brought them around his waist.

"It's a lot all at once," was all Harry had said, and Draco had only nodded, because he couldn't possibly understand everything in Harry's head just then, but having someone nod and hold on tight, even when they don't fully understand is better than not having anyone at all.

Hermione smiles brightly, and the relief in her face doesn't go unnoticed, though Draco thinks Harry won't take offense, because she's happy for the both of them and they know it. "I'll just go tell Ron, but you know if you need us Harry..." She trails off, gesturing vaguely.

"I'm sure I will," he says, "and thank you for the offer, really, Hermione. It means a lot."

She beams and turns to go back to her seat, and Draco can't resist another kiss, this one a little more gleeful than the ones before. He'd been hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to start getting used to waking up without Harry again, that at least _some_ part of the magic-that-isn't-magic might follow them back to London.

He knows their return will be tumultuous at best, no matter how certain he is that Harry will be all but yanked back into the life he left with tears and open arms. Eventually. But first there will be questions and maybe a few accusations, because the family that once was Harry's and now is Draco's is a forgiving lot, but they are human after all. Still, he thinks, as he pulls away from Harry's mouth before he can't stop himself climbing across the armrest and into Harry's lap and probably getting them thrown into some Muggle jail when they land in London for indecent behaviour in a flying deathtrap, Harry won Ron and Hermione over. He'll manage the rest of them as well.

Draco is amazed and at the same time not at how easily Harry, Ron, and Hermione fell back into their old ways after that night on the way down Harry's mountain. Since then, Hermione has been nearly relentless in her quest to learn everything Harry has done, hear about every place he's been and mountain he's climbed. Meals, when they all managed to dress and meet for them (which was only about half the time), were rarely quiet, and Harry usually was amused and exhausted by the end of supper each night.

"It's like they want to make up for five years in five days," he'd complained affectionately the night before they returned to Moshi, and Draco had only laughed and rolled his eyes and asked Harry just what he'd expected of his inquisitive friends.

Ron, in true Ron fashion, had thrown tact to the wind and asked Harry flat-out about Miles that night. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, during which only Draco felt the tremor in Harry's shoulders and the deep, calming breath he'd taken, Harry answered even that one, telling the story of how they'd met, the places they'd climbed together, and the start of Wanderlust.

Draco had been quiet, allowing Harry to grip his fingers as he spoke and keeping his own breathing and face calm. He was pleasantly surprised with himself to realise that the tugging in his chest was entirely for Harry and the loss he suffered, and not at all tinged with envy or uncertainty or insecurity that he wouldn't be able to measure up to the first man in Harry's life.

Seems he's come a long way after all.

"What's funny now?" Harry asks, and Draco realises he's smiling. He tries, with limited success, to screw his face back into a scowl, because he thinks he should not be quite so cheerful while suspended in midair miles above the earth, but as he looks back at Harry, he can't quite manage it.

"This is surreal," he offers by way of explanation, and as Draco knew he would, Harry nods and grins. Still, he goes on. "Two weeks ago, I walked into your office with the wool over my eyes - thanks very much again for that surprise, by the way, you prat - and now I'm flying back to London _with you_, and the last two weeks make that somehow make all the sense in the world."

At his half-hearted insult, Harry laughs, and at the emphasis on _with you_ - because if he's being honest, it means more than just sitting next to one another on this stupid plane - Harry lifts their hands and kisses the inside of Draco's palm, and Draco flushes, because that gesture undoes him every time.

"Trust me," Harry says, eyes sparkling with mirth, "if you'd told me two weeks ago I'd be here, I'd have laughed you off the mountain. I figured the best case was that we might not all kill one another, though to be honest I wasn't certain just how that would be possible with you."

Now it's Draco's turn to snort. "Well, you underestimated my powers of seduction, apparently," he says, and promptly jabs an elbow into Harry's ribs when he rolls his eyes.

"As I recall," Harry retorts, laughing, "it was _my_ fire and _my_ hairwashing that won you over. All you did was whinge about not being able to sleep and about the water being too cold. It's a wonder I didn't leave you behind!"

As has become custom, Draco can't muster even the least bit of indignation, because he's lost in laughing green eyes and tanned smile lines, and he stomps all over the _Malfoys do not..._ voice in his head, because he's tired of his past telling him how to behave. It's only been a couple of weeks, but he's pretty sure he knows exactly what's happened in the span of those days, though he's most definitely _not _ready to say the words out loud. Partly because conventional wisdom and the past he's trying to stifle tell him it's far too soon, but mostly because he's pretty certain they're true nonetheless, and his damnable insecurity nearly paralyses him when he starts to allow himself to consider the possibility.

A few more laughingly traded barbs give way to comfortable quiet, during which Draco spends half his time trying to figure out if he could apparate out of this contraption if it starts to fall out of the sky, and the other half surreptitiously glancing at Harry over the newspaper he's picked back up and trying to decide just when exactly he'll have to muster the courage to find out if Harry thinks this whole thing might be much bigger than sex and a shared past. He knows, logically, that he does. He wouldn't be here otherwise, but there are so many other things for Harry to go back to, and Draco wonders if things would be different if it was just _Draco_ that Harry was leaving Africa for.

Because Draco has come to the unnerving realisation that he really will pitch his whole life in London without a thought and go back to Harry's house amidst the coffee plants if it's what Harry wants. And that terrifies him.

What's funny, he thinks, as he flicks his eyes over Harry's face, smiling at the wrinkles of concentration on his brow and the way he absently chews his lower lip as he reads, is that travel back and forth to Africa is easy for a wizard. A few well-placed calls to the Ministry and he could portkey back and forth as frequently as he wished. He might even be able to apparate, once he knows his destination well enough.

But once he considers the idea of abandoning even a small part of his life in London, he starts to realise how easy it will be to give it all up. He loves his work, but there are plants everywhere, and he thinks it's very likely he'd fall under the spell of Harry's mountain if he spent much more time in its shadow anyway, and he's certain he could spend the rest of his days learning the secrets of the marvelous coffee that grows outside Harry's door.

Harry looks up at him quizzically, and Draco flushes at being caught, but Harry only smiles and goes back to his paper, and eventually the hum of the engine wins out over Draco's nerves and he feels his head start to fall back with sleep. Harry doesn't even look up, he just folds his paper in half so he can hold it in one hand, extending the other arm to pull Draco down to rest against his shoulder. Draco's lips curve up in a pleased smile and he yawns and closes his eyes, willing away his nerves and grounding himself in Harry's soapy-clean scent and the warmth radiating from his body, and knowing that despite any misgivings, Harry really does care for him too, and just now, that's more than enough.

When Harry gently shakes him awake, he realises it's more than several hours later, and the plane is pitching downward so violently that Draco might think they were about to crash if it wasn't for the calm timbre of Harry's voice telling him they're about to land. He stretches and rubs his eyes and grits his teeth against the unpleasant drop he feels in his stomach as they descend.

Despite his panicky senses telling him he's most definitely going to die any minute, they land without incident and the four of them collect their baggage and head to the nearest apparition point. It was agreed they'd go to Grimmauld Place, because they still have to sort out just how to tell everyone that yes, they had a wonderful trip, the mountain was amazing, and oh, by the way, we brought back Harry, and it's unlikely anyone would come looking for them there.

As first Ron, then Hermione and finally Harry disappear before his eyes, Draco thinks once again that this is so surreal he might not believe it's true if he wasn't standing there himself, and his gut twists as he mutters the words to meet his friends. He closes his eyes against the disorientation and disapparates.

And when he opens them again, blinking in the familiar darkness of the kitchen, he is shocked and more than a little terrified to see the bright brown eyes of Molly Weasley staring back at them all.

"Mum?" Ron squeaks a little, and normally Draco would take the opportunity to take the piss, because he sounds like a first year who forgot the password to his House after curfew, but in this case, Draco knows if he speaks he'll sound just like his friend. "What are you...? Erm, that is, how did you...?"

"The clock," Hermione says, her voice very soft. Draco wants to smack himself for forgetting about Molly Weasley's bloody clock, the one that tells her just enough about the locations of everyone in her family to keep her nerves in check. And she'd spelled it to add Harry as well, after the war was over but before he'd disappeared. The hand with his image on it had pointed to _Travelling_ for five years, so long in fact that Draco had forgotten it would even move.

Now, he pictures that hand pointing to _Home_, and though the idea makes him want to smile or take Harry's hand, he's frozen in place by those eyes. _Bugger._

"Hello, Harry dear," Molly says quietly, fixing her gaze on Harry, and if it wasn't for the waver in her voice and the bright sheen in her eyes, Draco thinks she could just as easily be greeting him after a trip to Diagon Alley.

Harry gulps, and Draco risks enough movement to brush his fingers over the back of Harry's hand at his side. He can't have Harry forgetting he's not in this alone, not now.

"Hi Mrs. Weasley," Harry says, just as quietly, and Draco is impressed at the steadiness in his voice.

They all stand there, tension radiating and buzzing so strongly that Draco is surprised the house itself isn't shaking, until finally Molly's intense gaze gives way to the tears Draco knew would come, and she throws her arms around a very surprised Harry's neck.

"Don't you think that I'm letting you off the hook, young man," she cries into Harry's shoulder. "You've more than a bit of explaining to do. Just slipping out of here in the dark of night and leaving nothing but that note behind! And after all that happened!"

She goes on for a bit in something that's caught between a shout and a wail, tears falling down her cheeks. Harry's eyes are wide, and Draco knows it's partly because he's shocked that she's hugging him in spite of her non-stop stream of admonishments, and partly because Molly can rival Hermione with the fierceness of her hugs, and Draco suspects it's getting rather difficult for Harry to breathe.

Molly must have noticed as well, because she takes a step back, but keeps her hands firmly on Harry's shoulders. That much, at least, Draco understands. After five years of nothing but the idea of Harry in their heads, the need to hold onto the real thing is very strong indeed.

She looks up into Harry's face, eyes still wet with tears.

"You look well enough," she says, eyeing him up and down in a way that has become familiar to Draco and always makes him feel as though he's too thin or too formal or too...something. Usually too thin, because that look is almost always followed by Molly's insistence that he eat a meal large enough to feed a whole Quidditch team. And sure enough, she doesn't let him down now. "A bit thin though, didn't they have food where you were?"

Draco has to bite his lips to keep from smiling, but his amusement quickly fades as Molly turns first to Ron and Hermione, and then to look at him.

"Did none of you think perhaps we'd want to know that you _found_ him? Hm? I've no clue where, and I assure you, Harry dear, you're going to answer every one of my questions until _I'm_ satisfied with the answers." Harry blanches and looks back at Draco for a split second.

Draco does his best to look sympathetic to Harry's plight and appropriately unnerved by Molly's outburst at the same time. Truth be told, he expected this. The woman is nothing if not endearingly predictable, and Draco knew she'd hug Harry and cry over him first, and then begin the inquisition.

"I can only assume you didn't just stumble upon him at that airport, which must mean you've been with him for some time. And it didn't occur _to any of you_ to send word? Honestly Ronald, I thought I'd raised you better!"

"Molly," Draco begins, and is promptly silenced by a sharp glare.

"And you, Draco Malfoy, you of all people should have known just how much the rest of us would want to know you'd found him! Considering the torch you car-"

"Molly!" Draco blushes furiously and cuts her off, avoiding Harry's eyes, which he knows are amused at Molly's almost-admission about just how much Draco has thought about Harry in the last five years. Harry knows, he knows that, but the point is, he doesn't need everyone else reminding him.

"We wanted to tell you," he goes on more gently, trying to look apologetic, though he suspects he's failing miserably, "but honestly, if you'd gotten an owl that said 'Dear Molly, lovely holiday we're having, the mountain's rather imposing but we're feeling pretty fair about our chances, and oh, by the way, Harry Potter is our guide,' you might have been just a bit put out?"

It comes out more petulantly than he meant it to, but honestly, what does she expect? Molly sighs.

"Perhaps," she says slowly, releasing her iron grip on Harry's shoulders, "if you start from the beginning. And don't leave anything out, I'll know if you do. I can see a lie on each one of your faces the minute it comes into your pretty little heads, so just forget about it."

Draco snorts, Ron reddens, and Hermione actually smiles, and they all know she's dead on. Harry, for his own part, looks so bewildered that Draco finally throws caution to the wind and takes his hand. Molly will find out before the story's over anyway. She lifts her eyebrows as she looks at their joined hands and the small, grateful smile Harry flashes at Draco, but says nothing.

Molly makes tea, because it's what she does, and they sit awkwardly at the large table in the Grimmauld Place kitchen until finally Draco can't take the silence any longer.

"There isn't a lot to tell, at least not for us," he says, looking at Ron and Hermione first, then glancing apologetically at Harry, because most of this story is his to tell. "Harry is the owner of the guiding company we commissioned. We didn't know when we made the booking, so when we arrived, we had a bit of a shock, but eventually came 'round to the idea that maybe we could find some common ground if we let him guide us after all."

He goes on to tell her about the climb, and Ron and Hermione cut into the conversation more and more as he goes on, adding details first, then their own observations and experiences with Harry. Ron tells her about learning to rock and ice climb with such enthusiasm that Draco thinks she might be a little proud of him, and Harry blushes, though he doesn't speak. They go on through several cups of tea, telling her about the trip down to the tiniest detail. Except...

"I think you're leaving something out," she says, looking pointedly at Harry and Draco's clasped hands, though she's smiling a little as she does.

Draco looks at Harry, wondering just where to begin. To his very great surprise, Harry finally chooses this moment to speak.

"With all respect, Mrs. Weasley," he says, still sounding ever so much like the boy he'd been last time he saw her, "I'm not entirely certain good portions of that story are anyone's business but Draco's and mine."

If Draco thought he was surprised when Harry spoke, his words are outright shocking. Even Hermione is staring open-mouthed. No one, not even Draco Malfoy at his most petulant, told Molly Weasley to leave off. And yet Harry just did it as though it was old hat, and now he's sitting there looking at her defiantly, and Draco can't believe his ears.

Molly looks at him for a long time, her lips pressed into a thin line. No one speaks, they all just look at Harry looking at Molly and Molly looking at Harry, wondering who will blink first. At last, Molly nods, and reaches out a hand to pat Harry's knee.

"Good boy," she says, and Draco feels his own mouth drop open at the same time he actually hears Ron's baffled squeak. "He really must mean something to you then, if you don't want to tell me. See that you don't hurt him, Harry. I won't be easy on you if you do."

For the first time in two weeks, the lump Draco feels rising in his throat has nothing to do with anything that Harry has done, and he looks at Molly with such open surprise and gratitude that she spares him a genuine smile.

"I won't be easy on myself," Harry says quietly and moves his hand in Draco's so their fingers twine together.

Draco's mind is whirling, and even after five years with a bunch of Gryffindors, he still isn't completely accustomed to such outward displays of affection. He thinks he must be living in a dream, listening to Molly Weasley threaten Harry Potter against hurting _him_, but the warm pressure of Harry's fingers and the absent stroking of his thumb over Draco's assure him he's really here, and this is really happening. Molly, for her part, nods again and stands.

"This isn't over, you mark my words," she says. "You're all coming to the Burrow tomorrow for lunch, and we're having this out properly. But you've all only just arrived and you look tired. I'll see you tomorrow at noon. Don't be late."

With that, she moves to kiss each of them, lingering only for an extra moment or two when she reaches Harry and smoothing his hair good-naturedly. When she apparates away, they all sit there for a moment, looking at one another, until finally Hermione starts to giggle. At first, Draco is shocked, because honestly, what was so funny about that encounter? But when Ron joins in, and then even Harry begins to shake at his side, Draco realises that they're all completely knackered, and that they've just passed the first hurdle of Harry's return and lived to tell about it, and he grins and before long finds himself laughing right along with them.

Before long, Hermione and Ron rise from their seats and gather their things, exchanging promises to meet for coffee in the morning to strategise before lunch at the Burrow as they prepare to go home. Hermione flings her arms around first Harry and then Draco and even Ron claps them each on the back, and Draco realises abruptly that their holiday is over, and their regular lives begin anew in the morning, and he's suddenly not entirely certain he's interested in any of that.

In a few moments, it's just the two of them, and Harry looks at him uncertainly.

"Did you want to look around before we leave? Not much has changed, but I know it's been a long time since you were here..." Draco trails off, and Harry lets one corner of his mouth quirk up.

"No, in fact I'd like to go before I start to get melancholy, and I was just trying to figure out how to ask you if we could leave now," he says, and Draco is caught between the urge to grin at how easy it had been to anticipate Harry's thoughts and the need to comfort him.

In the end, he opts for neither, instead realising just how long it's been since he's kissed Harry and deciding, upon reflection, that since they're all alone, and since Harry's last memories of Grimmauld Place are sad ones, it's up to him to begin to replace them. He reaches out and pulls Harry by the wrist until they're pressed together from sternum to knee, gazing steadily into tired, slightly sad green eyes.

"Welcome back," he whispers, his nose brushing Harry's as he draws their faces together, and Harry smiles and closes the gap between their lips. Their kiss is messy and breathless and desperate, and Draco isn't sure if it's because they've left Harry's magic mountain behind or because they're starting something new, or just because he _really _likes kissing Harry, and he thinks Harry likes kissing him back just as much. But when they break apart, Harry is still smiling, and now Draco is too, and he apparates them away from Grimmauld Place before Harry's eyes turn sad again, never loosening his grip around Harry's waist as they depart for Draco's flat.


	2. Chapter 2

_To everyone who read and reviewed last week, thank you! So far my mojo is being kind and sticking around, so for now we'll go with Tuesday updates until it deserts me.. If something happens to the routine, I'll be sure and let you know.__  
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><em>Thanks as always to the usual cast of suspects. You know who you are, and you rock my socks.<em>_  
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><em>All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended.<em>

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><p>When they arrive in his flat seconds later, Draco inhales the familiar scent of <em>home <em>and feels a smile playing at his lips before his eyes even catch up to his brain. He releases a blinking Harry and carelessly tosses their things on the floor near the door and makes a quick assessment of the condition of his flat while Harry gets his bearings and looks around. Satisfied that everything's exactly where he left it and, more importantly, that not a single plant is any worse for his absence, he turns to regard Harry, who is grinning at him.

"It's good I asked you what you do before you brought me here," he says, turning in place as he speaks. Draco moves to stand behind him, resting his chin on Harry's shoulder when he stills. "Otherwise I'd have wondered why you brought me to a greenhouse."

Harry laughs and Draco snorts and swats at his shoulder, because frankly, Harry's not far off. He'd chosen the flat to begin with because of all the windows, floor-to-ceiling on as many walls as were available to the outside, and in the years he's lived here, he's slowly filled many of the flat surfaces with plants of some sort or another. Although _greenhouse _might be a bit in excess. Maybe.

"You have your mountain, I have my plants," Draco says wryly, trying to sound defensive and knowing he's failing miserably. "It just happens to be easier for me to bring my work home, that's all."

Harry laughs and reaches down to take Draco's hands in his own and wrapping their arms around his midsection. Draco is oddly pleased at finally having the tables turned; for the short duration of their...relationship? Tryst? Affair? He isn't sure what they're calling it yet, but whatever it is, it's all taken place on _Harry's _ground, and Draco has been the visitor.

Now, though he has no desire to make Harry feel out of place, Draco relishes the sensation of pure comfort that goes with being _home_. He rests his chin on Harry's shoulder, taking in the familiar sights and scents and trying to see what Harry is seeing through eyes that have never seen this place before.

"It's not what I expected," Harry offers after a while, and Draco chuckles. "What, I'm sure you didn't expect my home to look the way it did either, did you?"

Draco considers for a moment, then says lightly, "Certainly not. I expect most people's homes to have four solid walls, not one cloth one. And I know you always had garish taste, but I never thought that particular shade of _yellow_would be your choice for decoration."

His laughter is punctuated by a light grunt when Harry elbows him in the ribs, but Draco can feel Harry's own laughter in the light vibrations of the muscles in Harry's abdomen beneath his fingers.

"You can mock my tent all you like," Harry says, "but you like it nearly as much as I do, and you know it."

Draco smiles and tightens his grip around Harry's waist and buries his face in the crook of Harry's shoulder.

"Maybe more," he mumbles softly, though he thinks Harry hears him, because Harry drops his head back onto Draco's shoulder and traces light patterns over Draco's fingers with his own.

"If not this, then what?" Draco finally asks, because honestly, he's lived here so long he can't even imagine it looking different.

Harry sighs and lifts his head to look around. "More...ornate, maybe?" He says after a while. "I don't know, I expected...portraits and gilded frames and posh, uncomfortable furniture."

"What, you thought I'd just make my own little Manor right here in the middle of London then?" Draco snorts, rolling his eyes. "I suppose you expected house elves and a ballroom as well then?"

"No house elves," Harry says, shaking his head, "Hermione'd never allow it. The ballroom though..."

He's laughing again, and Draco's laughing with him, and somehow Harry turns without breaking Draco's grip and suddenly they're laughing against each other's lips, which only makes Draco want to laugh more. He's seized with the utter perfection of this moment, standing in his living room with the one person he'd always wanted to share it with and never thought he'd get the chance, and much like their first kiss on the top of Harry's mountain and most every kiss or touch since, the reality makes the fantasy pale by comparison.

"It's nice, Draco," Harry says, still smiling, his forehead pressed to Draco's and his lips no more than a breath away, and Draco has to mentally shake himself to remember Harry's talking about his flat.

"It's home," he replies, sliding his hands down Harry's back to untuck his shirt and press his fingers into the warm skin beneath. "Nicer now though than it was when I left it."

He barely murmurs the last part, noting Harry's surprised smile with satisfaction, and then closes the few remaining centimetres between their parted lips. The kiss is unhurried and sweet, something Draco's never much cared for in the past but can't seem to get enough of now. He's not been totally incapable of affection, it's simply that he didn't feel the need to slobber all over every man he had a passing interest in before now. He's certainly never been one for kissing just for the sake of it, but he thinks it's very likely that kissing Harry just for the sake of it is well on its way to becoming his favorite past time.

Or one of them, he thinks hazily as he registers the feeling of Harry's hands sliding up his arms and shoulders, one coming to rest on his neck, his thumb skating over the scruffy whiskers on Draco's jaw. He shivers as he feels Harry's other hand slide under the bottom of his jumper and over the skin at his side. Their breaths are ragged and loud in the empty silence of his flat when they pull apart.

"Would you like to see the rest of the place?" He asks Harry, his voice a bit breathier than he intends.

"Please," he says, "and I hope you've a large shower in one of the rooms you plan to show me, because we smell like aeroplane."

Harry smiles again, and Draco is a little pleased to hear that his voice comes out a bit strained as well. He thinks he'll never grow tired of realising that he has the same effect on Harry that Harry does on him.

Draco wrinkles his nose, because the moment the words are out of Harry's mouth, he can smell it too. He shudders against the sour smell of stale (and very bad) coffee and something else he can't pinpoint but hopes never to smell again, if only because he never wants to find himself in one of those insane contraptions for as long as he lives.

"It's not that big a flat," he says as he steps out of Harry's grip and takes his hand. "Shower first, tour later, and you'll see most of it on the way anyway."

Harry laughs again but doesn't protest, following Draco down the hallway from the living room into Draco's bedroom. Harry opens his mouth, but Draco cuts him off with a kiss and a laugh, certain he knows what Harry's thinking as he looks around the sparsely furnished room. It's a bedroom, he's always reasoned, why should it be full of furnishings when all he needs is a place to sleep? Most of the room is occupied by the bed, though Draco does have a chair next to his night table full of books.

"If you're shocked not to see some ornate monstrosity with curtains and velvet pillows, Harry, do try to keep it to yourself, hm?"

"I was going to say it was nice too, you prat," Harry says good-naturedly and reaches down to pull Draco's shirt up and over his head before dipping his head to scrape his teeth over Draco's exposed collarbone. "And that it's rather nice to be surprised. And curtains are for children at Hogwarts, though I could see you rather liking them given your recently-discovered penchant for tents."

Draco only half hears Harry's words, distracted as he is by the sensation of lips and teeth on the bare skin of his neck, and he rolls his eyes with some effort and grasps Harry's chin, bringing their lips together again.

"Do shut up, Potter," he pants between kisses, and Harry laughs and kisses him back harder, and before long he can't find breath enough to speak at all.

He's caught up, yet again, in the surreal feeling of kissing Harry Potter, in his own bedroom this time, and the distinct feeling that this is all a dream floats through his mind for the thousandth time in a week. If it is, he thinks, as he turns Harry so he's guiding them both through his bedroom and into the bathroom without breaking their lips apart for more than a breath or two, he never wants to wake up.

They finally make their way into the shower in a flurry of fumbling fingers and tripping steps and curses at water that is first too cold and then nearly scalding because neither of them can be bothered to stop kissing long enough to actually test the shower first. Gasping and laughing and swearing, they finally break apart, and Draco obligingly tilts his head back as Harry's fingers start working through his hair. He closes his eyes and savours the sensation, absently reaching his own hands up to trace pointless patterns over the slick skin on Harry's torso, trying to memorise every place where a muscle twitches under his gliding fingers, every spot where he feels the light vibration of a moan.

When his fingers slide lower, one hand wrapping around Harry's hip and the other brushing the length of his already-hard cock, he hears Harry's breath catch in a gasp and feels those marvelous fingers clench in his hair, and he opens his eyes and grins at Harry. Harry grins back and slides his own hands down Draco's body slowly, maddeningly, and Draco shivers in spite of the hot water. When Harry kisses him again, desperation and want is replaced by something Draco would almost call ownership, in the same way he'd told Harry he doesn't share what's his, and the next shiver that runs through him is entirely borne by thrill.

Harry bites down on Draco's bottom lip when Draco wraps his fingers around Harry's cock, but even the pain is pleasurable this time. They've done sweet and reassuring, and it's been wonderful, but this is something else, and Draco wants it so badly he thinks his body is all but vibrating in place. His strokes are firm and quick and not at all gentle, and by the look on Harry's face when Draco peels his eyes open, Harry wants it that way.

His suspicions are confirmed when, a moment later, Harry's hands reach up to firmly grasp his shoulders and he's spun around, and pressed full-length against the cool tiles of the shower wall, Harry's chest and torso flush against his back. Harry pushes a knee between Draco's legs, urging them apart gently but insistently.

Draco bites his lip but can't stop the whining sound that escapes his throat, and Harry chuckles against the back of Draco's neck. Harry reaches around Draco's body with both hands, one gliding up to pinch at a nipple and making Draco's whine turn into a whimper, and the other reaching down to wrap around his cock.

"Harry, _fuck..._"

Draco can't even get out a full sentence, but somewhere through the fog of pleasure and hot water, he feels as much as hears Harry's voice against the skin below his ear.

"You only had to ask," he rasps, and slides the hand at Draco's chest down his side and around to graze over Draco's arse.

Draco presses his cheek to the cool tiles, looking for something - anything - to ground himself, because he'll be damned if his knees are going to give out now, no matter how good Harry's fingers feel as they tease at his entrance, and no matter how much he wants to thrust into the hand wrapped around his cock. He hisses and bites his lip, and he doesn't know if the blood he tastes is from his own teeth or from Harry's earlier, and he really doesn't give a fuck.

Harry whispers something that Draco recognises at the same instant a slick finger slides inside him, and he gives in to the urge to push into Harry's hand, gasping and nodding against the tiles and mumbling incoherent gibberish that he thinks sounds like _ohfuckyesmorefuck_.

"Do you want...?" Harry mumbles against his neck between kisses and bites and the addition of another finger and Draco nods blindly, because that's _exactly _what he wants.

Harry slips his fingers free and seconds later Draco feels Harry's hand running down his thigh, urging him to bend his knee and lift it to the ledge to his right. Compliant and wanting, Draco does, and is rewarded by the feeling of Harry's cock pressed to his entrance, and he groans unashamedly. Harry whispers again and begins to slide inside without preamble, though he does so slowly, gently, and not without more than a little encouragement from Draco, who is panting and pushing back into Harry and all but begging for more, because _fuck_ if this doesn't feel amazing, and the anticipation of _more _may drive him mad.

Once inside, Harry doesn't wait any longer, and his thrusts are as fast and firm as Draco's strokes had been earlier. The steam and the heat and the sensation of Harry inside of him make Draco's world shrink down to no larger than their two bodies and his cloud-filled shower and the sounds of their cries and whispers and skin slapping together wetly in the hot water, and it's almost filthy it's so basic, and it's _perfect_.

Harry's fingers grip at his hips so tightly that Draco is certain they'll leave marks, though these are the kinds of marks he not only accepts, but relishes. He's chosen this, chosen Harry, and Harry's chosen him, and right now, he thinks, if Harry wanted him to walk around with a sign on his chest that says _Property of the Boy Who Lived and Grew Up to Be a Fantastic Shag_, he'd do so. Happily. With bells on.

Harry's thrusts are becoming more insistent, and his hand around Draco's cock tightens and strokes faster. Draco's vision is quickly being reduced to a pinpoint of light in the steamy heat, and he's vaguely aware that he's chanting Harry's name over and over, mixed with curses and endearments that sound strange and at the same time fitting all mixed together. The sounds coming from Harry, hot and breathy and raspy in his ear, are incoherent and not words at all, but they're uninhibited and raw and Draco is so close that one final stroke and one particularly desperate growl in his ear that's followed by Harry's mouth latching to that sensitive place on his throat makes the pinpoint of light blink out and he comes hard, writhing and panting and pushing against Harry to drag it out as long as he can.

When he regains his breath and his balance, he can still feel Harry pushing into him, his thrusts more erratic and his pants turning to breathless growls, and he knows Harry's close as well. He braces shakily against the shower wall, pushing back into Harry and ignoring the screaming nerve endings all over his body that are protesting that it's already been too much, too good, because this is _better_, because it's for _Harry_.

He feels Harry slide a hand down the tensed muscles in his back, hears him call out his name with a ragged voice, and then Harry comes, pressing himself tightly against Draco's back for balance and "_more skin_," which is muttered against Draco's neck, and Draco can't help but smile through his haze.

After a few shaky moments, Harry slips free and wraps unsteady arms around Draco and turns him so they're facing one another again. Draco is amused and satisfied to see that Harry looks as dazed as he feels, and he leans in to kiss him, sloppy and wet in the spray of the shower.

"You're very distracting, Draco Malfoy," Harry says, sliding his hand up to swipe hair from his forehead while he grins at Draco.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Draco huffs, the effect only _slightly_compromised when he leans forward to rest his forehead on Harry's. "And besides, did you have somewhere else you needed to be just now?"

Harry smiles and nudges at Draco's nose with his own and brings their lips together softly. "I don't have anywhere else I need to be ever." The words are as soft as the kiss, and Draco is grateful for the hot water, because he knows his skin is pink already, so Harry can't see the flush of pleasure his words bring.

Before long the water begins to lose heat, and they scramble to finish cleaning up before it turns cold altogether. The insistent grumble of Draco's stomach reaches an audible level as they dry off, and Harry laughs.

"You've definitely been mates with Ron the last five years, listening to that," he says, voice playful.

Draco pulls a face. "Honestly, as if you could call what they served us on our flight _food_?" Even Harry wrinkles his nose, because it really had barely been edible. "We haven't had a proper meal in a while, forgive me if I'm hungry, won't you?"

Harry is still chuckling as Draco stalks out of the bathroom, pulls a shirt over his head and wanders out into his living room. He still has nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, because he finds himself hoping to be naked with Harry again soon and doesn't see the point in getting dressed, but he can't very well Floo-call for takeaway without a shirt on, can he?

Putting his head into the Floo, he firecalls the pub around the corner, giving a haughty expression to the waitress who knew exactly what he wanted and was about to sever the connection when he ordered for Harry too. Moments later, the delivery owl is tapping at his window and the scent of food fills his nostrils and for two seconds he forget even that Harry Potter is naked in his bedroom, because _Merlin, _he's starving!

Until the same Harry Potter walks out of his bedroom, still naked and swiping a towel through his hair, and Draco's mouth waters for another reason, and he mentally slaps himself, because they only just shagged not 15 minutes ago. He shakes his head at himself and regards Harry.

"You're going to have to put _something_ on," he says at last, and Harry crooks an eyebrow at him. "I'm starving, Potter, and I'll not be distracted from my supper, but I cannot concentrate with you like _that_, so for the love of Salazar, at least wrap that towel around your waist, will you?"

He's nearly blushing again by the time he finishes, but Harry smirks and does what Draco asks, though he doesn't bother with more clothes. Draco thinks he might have to institute a minimum clothing rule for certain hours of the day, because there's no chance at all Draco will ever go back to work again if Harry wanders around undressed all the time.

_Work. _

The thought brings Draco up short. He actually has to go back to his regular _life_ now, back to work and sheaves of parchment filled with drawings of other people's gardens and days away from home and Harry. Merlin, he didn't actually _think _about how this was going to work. What's Harry going to do all day?

"You look like you've just seen a Thestral for the first time," Harry says, suddenly looking concerned instead of smug, and he crosses the room to Draco's side.

Draco shakes himself. He hadn't meant to look so horrified (and Harry hadn't been there the first time he saw a Thestral; he'd shrieked like a little girl before he could stop himself, much to his very great embarrassment), he supposes it's just hit him all at once that not only is their holiday over, but that though the _idea_of having Harry here is wonderful, the execution lacks a bit of planning.

"I'm sorry, I'm fine," he says a bit abruptly, because he thinks if he mentions his fears to Harry, he'll only increase the other man's anxiety about being here. He smiles though, and reaches out to bring Harry's hand to his lips, kissing the still slightly-pruny palm.

Harry isn't fooled. He twists his hand from Draco's gently and grips Draco by the shoulders, eyes wide and questioning and worried. Draco should have known he wouldn't be, and he sighs.

"It's just...what will you do, Harry? When I go back to work, what are you going to _do_?"

Harry looks even more confused, and maybe a little hurt, and Draco knows he's fucked this up already without even meaning to.

"Not like that," he rushes on, "I don't care what you do, you can stay here, or come to work with me or go fly kites in the park if it pleases you!" He looks closely at Harry, watching for the furrowed line between his eyes to smooth just a bit. "I just realised I dragged you back here, and you haven't really got anything here, have you?"

He sounds like a complete idiot, and he knows it, but he thinks Harry gets it. Harry sighs, a small, tired, slightly-worried smile on his lips. He releases Draco's shoulders and puts his hands on either side of Draco's face, anchoring their gazes together, because he must know Draco's ready to look away again.

"You didn't _drag_ me, I chose this," Harry says quietly. "And I haven't the first clue what I'm going to do, but I'm sure I'll think of something. I've still got a business to run. And I don't know as I'd go so far as to say I haven't got _anything _here, Draco."

He leans in and kisses Draco softly, and Draco feels even more like an idiot, because he hadn't been fishing this time.

"I've a great deal of time to make up for, and more than a few relationships I care about that I'd like to try to mend," Harry goes on. "And if I'm honest, that will probably take up just as much time as a job would, won't it?"

Draco smiles back, probably just as tiredly, and maybe a little sadly, because he knows Harry is right on that count. The people who love Harry will forgive him, Draco knows it. But he knows just as well how hurt they were to begin with, and there are many bridges that need rebuilding before Harry will feel at home again. Suddenly, Harry's smile changes to a more certain one.

"Besides, this is what happens when you wander," he winks at Draco and takes the takeaway cartons from his hands, setting them on the table and rummaging through one, then another. "You don't quite know where you're going or what you're going to do when you get there. I know where I am, and how I got here, and now I just have to work out what to do next."

He shrugs and Draco regards him with skepticism and amusement. _That's _how he stumbled about for five years? Merlin, Draco would go mad without a plan in about five _days_.

Then again, he thinks, as he watches Harry eat straight from the cartons and not even bother to sit down, perhaps not having a plan has its merits after all.

Their conversation over supper is easy and comfortable, once Draco convinces Harry that food actually tastes better sitting down, and then Harry convinces Draco that it tastes even better still sitting down on the floor stretched out on piles of Draco's chair and sofa cushions (and it does, though Draco will not admit it because eating on the floor is barbaric). Draco has to remind himself again that even though they have years of shared history, the number of actual conversations they've shared without wanting to hex one another silly is still fairly small.

"Do you use magic in your work?" Harry asks between bites of some sort of sandwich he's concocted with the ingredients of each of the cartons.

Draco swallows a bite of potatoes and considers. "I do and I don't." Harry looks puzzled. Draco smiles indulgently.

"First of all, I have Muggle clients. And don't say a word, I know you've taken Muggles up mountains, it's no different. I don't usually _plant_anything, I just give them designs. I have wizarding staff and Muggle staff, and it works admirably well. The crews are split, and I just don't ever send a Muggle to a wizard's house or choose wizarding plants for a Muggle garden."

Harry is looking at him as though he's sprouted wings.

"Oh honestly, Harry," he says, exasperated, "did you _really_think everything I've said about being different was just a lot of nonsense? I'm not my father, you know."

Harry blinks and nods. "I know, I'm sorry, I just...this is one of those surreal moments in all this. Even more than the rest. Draco Malfoy employing Muggles." He shakes his head in wonder, and Draco almost laughs at him.

"The plants don't care, Harry, so why should I? Besides, have you seen some of the Muggle gardens in this city? Some of them have quite the eye indeed."

Harry laughs openly now, that sound Draco wants to hear every day for the rest of his life, and he smiles.

"Do you ever use more magic than you did with us on the mountain?" He asks after a moment.

Now it's Harry's turn to consider, nodding eventually.

"If I have a client who's having a particularly hard time, or if someone's ill and it's not so serious that they need a hospital but too serious to keep going, sometimes I will. I really prefer not to, and not just because the Muggles can do it."

Harry stops for a moment, thinking. Draco cuts in before he can go on, and Harry looks surprised at his words.

"No, I get it," he says. "When we got to the top that night, and I realised I'd done that on my own, without magic, it was astonishing. I could have apparated there and seen the view and felt the air, or I could have flown I suppose, but it wouldn't have been the same, would it?"

Harry grins. "It most certainly would not. I did it once, actually." Draco lifts a surprised eyebrow as Harry goes on. "Just to see what it would be like to appear up there. It's...empty? No, that's not the right word. Hollow?"

Harry's face is so furrowed with concentration that Draco has to bit his lip so he doesn't laugh out loud, because he really does understand what Harry's saying, and it's true. The experience of the climb was the point, really. He stood on the summit for...well, if he's honest, he was up there a good bit longer than most, owing to his pair of trips. Still though, he probably was up there for less than two hours total, and two hours in the span of an eight day trip aren't much, no matter how spectacular the view (and the kissing) was when he got there.

And when he looks back on the trip, those minutes will figure in prominently, though he thinks for a different reason than for most people, considering the company he's currently keeping. But his late-night talks with Harry and watching Weasley learn to climb and listening to Hermione's ten thousand questions were all a part of it too, and the experience would have been, well, he thinks Harry's got it right with _hollow_, actually.

Draco gives into the temptation to laugh at last, because Harry still seems to be considering the right word just a bit too hard. The sound shakes Harry from his thought, and he colors a bit, smiling sheepishly.

"Sorry," he mumbles, "believe it or not, I've talked more in the past week than I probably have in a year. I get caught up sometimes."

Draco smiles back, though he feels an ache in his chest thinking of Harry's relatively silent life. He speaks when he guides, of course, but Draco knows that talking to one's clients is not the same as having someone to talk to. He's seized by the irrational need to shock Hermione into silence with a hug and possibly to stay something nice to Ron, just for the sake of doing so, because while Harry's had no one to talk to, Draco's spent five years with all the company he could want and some he didn't, and he's grateful, even if he doesn't mention it often.

Not wanting to make Harry uncomfortable, or break the quiet comfort of the conversation they're having, he changes tack.

"Has anyone ever recognised you? Before us, I mean?" He asks, because he's wondered all along.

Harry shakes his head. "I review all the bookings. If there's a name I recognise, or that sounds familiar, or if the clients are from London or really anywhere in England, I tend to send them up with another guide. I came close a time or two, didn't review the files properly. I had to use a glamour, and that was a lot of work to keep up for eight days." Draco nods sympathetically, because maintaining the same glamour for days at a time would be more trouble than he'd want to put in, that's certain. "But no, I've been fortunate. And no one down there really cared who I was, so I didn't have to hide. By now they've probably forgotten I'm Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. They just know me as the bloke who runs Wanderlust, and I like it that way."

Draco considers this as they finish their supper and he vanishes what little remains of the meal. _Just the bloke who runs Wanderlust_. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at Harry and not see seven years of fighting against something no child should ever have to face. If he'll ever just see the man who taught him that magic isn't always magic, and that sometimes there's magic where none should be, and not the boy he fought with every day until he realised he didn't want to fight with him anymore a couple of years too late.

He doubts it. This is _Harry_, after all, and even if it's _just Harry_, there's no erasing twelve years of history. Upon further reflection, he doesn't think he'd want to anyway.

Draco reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from where it's fallen over Harry's eyes. Harry is sprawled across the floor, cushions at his back and under his feet, eyes half-closed. He looks so bloody comfortable that if Draco didn't know better, he'd think Harry'd been sitting in that very spot after supper for years. Harry smiles at Draco's touch and flicks his eyes open to look at Draco.

"I could get used to this," he says, and Draco feels a pleasurable jolt at hearing the words that had very nearly become his own mantra in the past few days repeated back to him. "There's something different about eating with someone, and I'd forgotten. It's...I don't know." He starts to furrow his brow again, then grins when Draco slides his fingers over the not-quite-formed line between his eyes, stopping the expression before it takes root. "It's not just something that has to be done, if that makes sense?"

Draco nods, thoughtful.

"Meals at the Manor were...well, they weren't just something to be done, but they were productions, not experiences. I used to loathe supper, because we sat at this enormous table, like one of the House tables at Hogwarts, but just the three of us, and it was quiet as a tomb unless I violated some sacred archaic table manner." Harry snorts and Draco smirks. "Once or twice when I was younger, I used to fantasise about jumping up on the table and shouting at the top of my voice, just to see what might have happened."

Harry laughs. "You never did?"

"Are you mad, Potter?" Draco laughs through his incredulity. "I know perfectly well what would have happened, and it would have included me with a hexed backside!"

"I used to daydream about pouring a pitcher of water over Uncle Vernon's head when I was very young," Harry says, his laughter quieting. "Never did that either. Course, he couldn't have hexed me, but he was handy enough with a belt."

Draco scoots across the floor, reclining next to Harry so their heads are on the same cushion, then slides an arm under Harry's shoulders, drawing him close and breathing in the clean scent of his hair.

"Imagine if they could see us now," Draco says into the top of Harry's head.

He feels Harry's laugh against his chest at the same time Harry's fingers slip beneath his shirt and graze the skin on his torso. He shivers.

"I think if they saw us right now, your father would probably be trying to teach a hex to a Muggle for the first time in his life, just so they could both have a go at us."

Draco chuckles, trying to imagine a scenario that might have encouraged Lucius Malfoy to corroborate willingly with a Muggle. He supposes, as he trails his fingers up the still-bare skin on Harry's back, that seeing his son wrapped up with a mostly-naked Harry Potter on the living room floor of his flat might be just the thing.

He dozes off, or he thinks he does, and he thinks Harry must too, because the light in the room is almost gone the next time he looks around. He stretches carefully, making certain not to dislodge Harry from where he's still tucked into the space between Draco's chin and his chest. Draco laughs soundlessly, once again muttering something about not believing Harry's _I don't sleep _story under his breath, but there's no malice in it.

Draco himself is more well-rested than he's felt since...well, probably since he was a child and didn't know there was such a thing as _not_ being well-rested. He hasn't had a nightmare in a week, and the sun's been up long before he has every day since that first night on the top of the mountain with Harry. Still, the living room floor is a poor substitute for his bed, and the side of him _not_covered by Harry (who is a bit like his own personal warming charm, which Draco appreciates since he tends to run cold) is chilly in the evening air.

He finds, perhaps a bit to his delight, that the most effective method for waking Harry is kissing him, something he hopes to do a few more times in the near future. Harry kisses him back sleepily, pressing even tighter against Draco's chest and making him roll his eyes in mock exasperation at his body's reaction. Mostly though, he focuses on the kiss, on Harry's hazy, sleepy eyes, his warm skin and tousled hair, and the soft slide of their lips and tongues, and when they break apart, Draco can't suppress the contented sigh from escaping through curved-up lips.

His attempts to get Harry up from the floor are not as successful, and he finds that Harry can be quite petulant when he's half-awake and comfortable. Eventually, he rolls Harry unceremoniously off his chest, laughing at the muffled protests coming from where he's landed in the pillows, and he rises.

"Bed, Potter," he says, with as much sternness as he can muster through his laughter. "Now."

Harry tries, with limited success, to glare up at him. The effect is completely spoiled in Draco's eyes though, because sleep-rumpled Harry is, well, frankly, he's sort of _adorable_, though Draco will never tell him so. Not because he's worried about what Harry will think about being _called_adorable, but because he's certain the word has never crossed a Malfoy's lips. And he may be putting most of his past behind him, but he thinks perhaps the Malfoys might have been onto one or two things over the years.

He chuckles and banishes the thought and half-drags a protesting Harry down the hallway to his bedroom, where he divests himself of his shirt and both of them of the towels they've been lazing about in. It's a testament to how tired he is that Draco does nothing more than curl himself around Harry's naked torso and press his face into the warm crook of his neck before falling asleep. But, he reasons happily just before sleep takes over, Harry is _here_ now, and there will be plenty of time for other things tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

_To everyone who read and reviewed last week, thank you! And thanks as always to the usual cast of suspects. You know who you are, and you rock my socks._

_All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

><p>Draco opens his eyes, blinking against the soft, gray light of the London morning and feeling that giddy, un-Malfoy-like grin spread across his lips at the same moment his brain registers the arm thrown over his side and the press of warm skin against his back. His feet are tangled with Harry's in such a way that he knows he can't move without waking his bed partner, but he finds himself in no rush to rise. Usually a very efficient morning person, Draco is beginning to think that the return of The Boy Who Snores But Is Forgiven Because He's Like a Personal Warming Charm into his life may be the end of productivity in all its forms.<p>

He allows himself to consider that for a while, thinking of a life without his work and his responsibilities. In truth it wouldn't be a difficult thing; he's more than enough money left in the Malfoy and Black family vaults at Gringotts, even after the Ministry took what it deemed as appropriate reparations for his father's crimes. Add to that his regular salary and the fact that being friends with Granger and Weasley all these years has made him grudgingly accept that opulence is not always necessary, and Draco Malfoy is a very wealthy man indeed. He works because he likes it, and because it gives him something to focus his attentions on. But as Harry tightens the arm about his waist and mumbles something sleepily into the back of Draco's neck, Draco thinks perhaps he could get used to focusing on _this_instead, even if only for this morning.

He tries to bite back a chuckle as Harry mumbles again, more clearly this time, but as a list of items a Hippogriff might need to climb Harry's mountain is whispered into Draco's hair, the battle is quickly lost. Draco shakes with silent laughter, torn between wanting Harry to go on for the sheer entertainment value and wanting to roll over and kiss him awake. He settles on the former, but reaches down to take Harry's hand in his and drag Harry's palm up to his lips as he laughs.

"Mmph…need 'nother porter for the food…Hippogriffs eat more'n wizards, y'know?" Harry mutters.

Draco snorts and licks the skin at Harry's wrist softly.

"'stracting me, trying t' pack here! 'Mportant client, Malfoy, can't forget the Hippogriff tent..."

Draco is almost sobered at the idea that he's found his way into Harry's dreams, and that Harry thinks the caresses Draco's spreading over Harry's forearm and open palm are part of that dream. Almost. But the almost-tantrum Harry seems to be throwing over climbing accommodations for a wild creature makes him laugh silently in spite of the warm feeling in his belly brought on by the idea of Harry dreaming about him. He decides to see just how long Harry will keep dreaming instead, turning his head back to Harry's arm and sucking gently at the skin inside the crease of his elbow.

A soft whine and the shift of Harry's hips against his back bring a satisfied smirk to Draco's face, but Harry's evidently quite asleep, because he keeps mumbling a bit longer.

"Already told you you can come too, Draco," Harry whines and presses harder against Draco's arse, "don't hafta..."

Harry drifts off in a hum that turns into a moan, and Draco hears the hitch in his breath that means he's waking up. Seconds later, the arm Draco isn't running his tongue over tightens, and Harry kisses the back of Draco's neck sloppily.

"Hippogriffs, Potter?" Draco can't help himself, even if it does make Harry stop the kissing, which was really rather lovely.

He turns when Harry doesn't answer, no small feat considering the iron grip Harry has around his midsection. He's even more amused to find Harry's face buried in the pillows, but the flush creeping up the side of Harry's neck is irresistible, and Draco leans in to kiss the exposed skin.

"'Spose I should have mentioned I talk in my sleep," Harry mumbles into the pillow, and Draco pauses in his kissing to smile.

"You might have," he says, "but it was so much more fun to find out on my own."

Harry laughs, his skin still flushed from embarrassment and sleep. Draco has to bite his lip to keep from letting the words in his head escape his lips, because he's certain if he gets started, he'll never stop. _You're beautiful. I can't believe you're here. Don't leave again. I can't believe you're here. Did I mention you're beautiful? Fuck, you've turned me into a complete sap. Don't you dare fucking leave again._

He settles for more kisses, his lips tracing the sharp lines of Harry's jaw with slow deliberation. Harry sighs and tips his head to the side and tightens his arms around Draco's back, and even as he presses reflexively into Harry's embrace, Draco knows they won't be getting up any time soon. And he can't say he minds too much.

It never ceases to amaze Draco how much the sight of the Burrow makes him feel at home now. Five years ago, he would have scoffed at its cramped spaces and cluttered surfaces, all so at odds with the austerity of the Manor, but now its simplicity appeals to him in spite of the sheer volume of _stuff_the Weasleys seem to have covering every flat surface (and some not-so-flat ones) in the house.

He supposes it's a bit the same as the way Hermione and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys - well, most of them, Percy is still a complete git - have become like a second family to him since that day Hermione dragged him into the search for Harry and by extension their lives. The Burrow is something of a second home. Well, not _home_ exactly, but he's safe here, and comfortable, and the ease with which he's accepted that is so shocking that he's not really surprised he still feels amazement when he comes here, even after all this time.  
>Today feels different though, as they Apparate into the yard outside the strange little house, and Harry reaches out to grip Draco's fingers in his own. As Draco squeezes Harry's palm, he almost shakes his head. Of course it's different, Harry's here. He's <em>here<em>, at the Burrow, where countless nights were passed in heated debate or sullen silence or even surprising laughter, all of which stemmed from Harry's mysterious disappearance.

Harry's palm is damp and Draco can feel nervous energy pulsing off him in waves that almost make the air shimmer. He stops, pulling Harry up short by the hand before they make their way through the door.

"You'll be fine," Draco says. Harry's eyes dart from Draco's face to the door and back, and he bites his lip. "It'll be fine, Harry. Trust me?"

Harry nods uncertainly, and Draco can't silence the voice in his head that wonders how on earth the man in front of him could possibly have defeated the most evil wizard of their time when he can barely bring himself to enter a house full of Weasleys. Then again, Draco supposes, very little is as terrifying as a house full of Weasleys. Perhaps if the Dark Lord had happened upon the Burrow, the war might never have happened.

Harry is looking at him quizzically, and Draco realises he's smirking. He schools his features, thinking perhaps now is not the time to share his thoughts with someone who's trying to find the scene on the other side of the door _less_ frightening. As he notes his own confidence that Harry really _will_ be fine, once the initial awkwardness wears off, Draco wonders if perhaps this is what Harry was feeling once he finally knew for sure that they would climb his mountain with him as their guide. _I can make this right up there, Draco,_he'd said, and he was as good as his word in the end, despite Draco's trepidation.

Draco reaches up to slide a soothing palm over Harry's shoulder, capturing nervous green eyes with his own.

"Tell them the truth, Harry," he says softly. "You owe them that, but I think you'll find they'll be more receptive to it than you think. They were your family once, and this lot don't turn their backs on family, no matter the circumstances."

Harry still looks doubtful, though Draco can feel the muscles under his fingers loosen just a bit. He tries again.

"They took me in," he says even more quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Weasleys, Harry. Weasleys took _me_, Draco Malfoy, into their home, after all the things I did. After the things my aunt and my father..."

He trails off, because the crimes of his predecessors weigh heavily upon him every time he sees that wistful look in George's eyes that tells of a loss he'll never fully recover from. And yet they really have taken him in. If they could find a place for a Malfoy, they'll find a place for Harry again, Draco knows it.

Besides that, he reasons, despite the hurt and betrayal they all felt at one time, and that some of them still feel, he's sure, war and death and loss have a funny way of making them all welcome anything that comes back to them with just a little less anger and just a little more forgiveness. It's so rare to get anyone back, they'd be more than a little foolish not to hold tight to Harry now that he's reappeared, no matter how hurt or angry they'd been.

"Still..." Harry says, trailing off with a sigh that echoes Draco's from a moment before.

_Still, I left_, Draco knows he's thinking but doesn't say, and part of him really doesn't blame Harry for being apprehensive.

Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on one's perspective - the door flies open at that moment, and a blur of small, red-headed figures bursts past them hollering like banshees. They don't spare a glance for Draco, who smiles in spite of himself, because he thinks Ginny's children are really rather precocious and adorable (though he's loath to admit it), or Harry, who freezes at the sight beyond the open door.

Ginny Weasley Wood stares back, her mouth slightly ajar and eyes wide. She's frozen in place, perched on her husband's knee in one of the ever-growing number of chairs at Molly Weasley's ramshackle dining room table. Wood, though more composed than his wife, looks nearly as surprised to see them, and Draco begins to fear that Molly might have forgotten to mention that Harry would be joining them for lunch.

Harry is so still that Draco is about to ask him if he's ill when Molly's voice comes from the kitchen at the same time that Harry blindly reaches out and takes Draco's hand again. His palm is hot and sweaty, and Draco can feel it trembling. He squeezes lightly, trying once again to summon some kind of appropriately comforting reaction for Harry whilst hoping his own nerves calm just a bit before he has to try to eat anything.

"Ginny dear, can you come help me in here for a moment?" Molly calls, but they're all frozen to the spot in such a way that Draco almost wants to laugh. "Ginny? Ginevra Weasley, can you hear me out there?"

Draco does snort under his breath at this, because Ginny's face reddens in spite of her shock at the sound of her full name. She doesn't look away from Harry though, nor he from her, though Harry looks more like a cornered ferret trying to find a means of escape from a Hippogriff than anything.

"Merlin, Ginny, have you gone deaf?" Molly bustles out from the kitchen and swats at her daughter's shoulder, making Ginny flinch and Oliver blink in surprise. "Oh, hello Draco dear. Harry. Lunch is nearly ready. Ginny, aren't you going to say hello to Harry? It isn't as though you didn't know he was coming, now is it?"

_That answers that,_ Draco thinks, and he finally decides _someone_in the room will have to move eventually. He pries his fingers from Harry's and crosses the room. He bends to kiss Ginny's cheek in greeting and whispers in her ear before he pulls away.

"Are you alright?" He says it so softly that even Oliver doesn't hear, but Ginny blinks and nods very slowly, almost imperceptibly, and Draco relaxes just a bit. "He's not the same, Gin, give him a chance? Please?"

He hears a gratifying inhalation at the please, and he has to bite his lip not to smile. Draco's a good deal kinder than he was when they were at Hogwarts, and he and Ginny really are fast friends, but a near-plea from Draco Malfoy is unusual, if not unheard of. Or it was, until Harry reappeared in his life and reduced Draco to the sap he is today.

"Oliver," Draco says as he straightens and helps Ginny to her feet. Ginny's husband takes Draco's proffered hand of greeting and returns Draco's smile before moving to stand in front of Harry.

"Potter," he says neutrally, and holds out his hand.

Draco's mind instantly flashes back to the first time he stood in that same pose before Harry, hand outstretched, and he shakes himself.

"Hello, Wood," Harry says, shaking his hand with an uncertain smile. "Been a long time."

"Indeed," Oliver says, smirking. He looks back at Ginny, whose eyes are still a bit wide. "You know my wife of course."

Harry looks at Ginny again, chewing on his bottom lip, and Draco is torn between wanting to move closer just to give Harry some comfort and not wanting to disturb whatever is about to happen here. Harry and Ginny were over before Harry left, Draco knows that, but she still took his departure hard. And he has no idea how she took the sight of Harry holding his hand, but there's been no mistaking Draco's sexual preferences for years, so he supposes there won't be much room for doubt on that front either.

"Ginny, I-" Harry is abruptly cut off when Ginny shoots across the floor so fast Draco would almost swear she Apparated and throws her arms around his neck. Harry's eyes are so wide they look as though they may come out of his head, though Draco suspects his aren't much different. Oliver, for his part, is smiling the smile of a man who knows far more than he lets on.

"Don't you ever leave us like that again Harry Potter, do you hear me?" Ginny's tone is low but fierce and a bit uneven, which Draco takes to mean that Harry's shirtfront will be tear-stained if she ever lets him go. Harry meets Draco's eyes, and Draco can't help but notice the extra shine in the green gaze, but Harry's mouth is curved into the smallest of smiles as he wraps his arms around Ginny's back.

Draco can hear him muttering into her hair, only catching every few words, but the _I'm sorry, Gin, gods I'm so sorry_ he hears more than once brings the sting of tears to his own eyes. They hadn't known what to expect, who would be angry and who would be forgiving, but neither of them expected _this_.

When Ginny pulls away, eyes teary and nose running, Draco smirks in spite of himself at the mess she's made of the front of Harry's shirt, then softens his smile at the picture the two of them make.

"So," Ginny sniffs, moving away from Harry to stand in her husband's embrace at the same time Draco finally gives in and crosses the floor to stand next to Harry. "You two, hm?"

Draco turns to Harry, unsure how he wants to handle this question since it's coming from his former girlfriend, the girl everyone expected him to marry once, but his curiosity is quickly replaced by surprised pleasure. Harry puts a solid, assured hand on Draco's back and moves closer until they're touching as he nods.

"So Hermione was right all along," Ginny muses, "it did take Malfoy to find you and bring you back."

"So it did," Harry says with a smile, and the hand on Draco's back slides around his waist.

Draco snorts. "As much as I'd like to take all the credit for returning Harry here, I'd like to point out that it was your insane brother's idea to go climb that insane mountain. If you'll recall, I had to be dragged along kicking and screaming."

Harry turns his head so he's speaking right into Draco's ear.

"I didn't notice much kicking," he breathes, "and I can't say I thought most of the screaming sounded much like protests."

Draco rolls his eyes and elbows Harry in the ribs, earning a pinch to the skin beneath his shirt when Harry yelps, but he feels heat rise into his face all the same.

"I can't say I'd call that screaming, Potter," he whispers back as he frees himself from Harry's grasp to go help Molly in the kitchen. "You'll have to work harder if it's screams you're after."

Now it's Ginny's turn to roll her eyes, having caught the tail end of the exchange, and she swats at Draco as he slides past her on his way into the kitchen.

The kitchen at the Burrow is the same as every other room: cluttered, cramped, and yet somehow comfortable. Draco spares a moment to inhale the savoury air before glancing up at Molly's clock. There, with hands representing all the Weasleys currently in residence, as well as one each for Hermione and himself (this last always brings a twinge of pleasure to Draco's chest), is the hand on the clock that had, for so long pointed to travelling.

_Harry Potter. _

_Home._

Drawing a deep, shaky breath at the warmth that fills his belly at the sight, Draco turns and grins at Molly, who pats his cheek and murmurs something about being pleased to see him so happy. Then, just as he'd expected, she gives him several bowls of potatoes and vegetables and who knows what else she's prepared to feed the army of Weasleys and adopted family that are gathering around the table, and shoos him back out of the kitchen.

Arthur has clearly taken his cues from Molly, just as Draco expected, and he's greeting Harry like he's been away on holiday for a month instead of missing for five years. Questions will come, hard ones with even harder answers, but not today it seems. George claps Harry on the back and pulls him into a hug that lasts just a little longer than a normal greeting might. Draco is becoming adept at reading _I'm so sorry_on Harry's lips, but George's smile is genuine and his jokes are terrible, and Draco knows he's already forgiven Harry before they even break apart.

Ron and Hermione have slipped in amidst the commotion, and they look as pleased and surprised as Draco himself at Harry's greeting. Soon they're all tucked in at Molly's table, exchanging pleasantries and asking and answering question after question about Africa and climbing and their trip, the conversation only interrupted by the boisterous shouts of Ginny's children rejecting all manner of green vegetables and requesting a taller mountain of potatoes. Which, Draco notices, they are using to make elaborate potato villages on their plates.

The four of them relay every story they can think of about the mountain, the trip, the plants, the food, the town, and the climb, taking turns filling in details and conversations for their unusually rapt audience. Draco thinks the uncharacteristic singular focus from all parties Weasley probably has a great deal to do with how much they've missed Harry's presence at this table for so long, and he finds himself watching Harry with a smile for most of lunch.

The only stories Harry steers the conversation away from are the ones about the two of them. At first, Draco is irrationally afraid that perhaps Harry is ashamed or embarrassed, now that he's finally back among the people who loved him before the magic that wasn't magic on his mountain brought them together. But when a hand slides over his knee to rest on his thigh, squeezing gently as Harry shakes his head smilingly in answer to Ginny's question about how they ended up together, Draco knows that's not it at all. He thinks perhaps Harry shares his own unspoken sentiment that what passed between them night after night at the fire should stay between them, not because the should hide any of it, but because it's a bit special somehow.

_That bloody magical mountain_, Draco thinks, hiding his grin in his glass and pressing his knee against Harry's under the table.

At last, full and talked out, they say their goodbyes, promising to come 'round for dinner next week and making plans to meet Ron and Hermione for a pint a day or two after they settle back in at work. Everyone lingers a bit longer on Harry's goodbye, and Draco wonders if they'll always do that: tell him goodbye as though it will be for five more years instead of five more days. He suspects they will at that, and he can't say he blames them.

Harry breathes deeply when the door closes behind them and he pulls Draco by the hand away from the house into the dark shadows of the trees on one end of the Burrow's yard. At first, Draco thinks Harry's in a hurry to get back to his flat, until they reach a shadowed spot beneath a tree just beyond where they'd Apparated into the Burrow earlier that afternoon, and Harry spins to face him at the same time he pulls Draco against his chest and presses their lips together without a word.

"Mmph!" Draco grunts in surprise, though he wraps his hands around Harry's arms tightly, not wanting to seem as though he's putting up a fight.

Harry pulls away for just a moment, looking into Draco's eyes and breathing just a bit more heavily than usual.

"Fuck," he gasps, "I've been thinking about that all afternoon."

Draco grins in spite of himself, and is about to say something about his irresistible charm when Harry kisses him again and he forgets the words.

Hell, he forgets every word he's ever known, because this kiss is complicated and needy, hungry and relieved and joyful and desperate. Draco can feel every emotion Harry's felt all afternoon in the hot slide of Harry's tongue against his and the vibrations of the low whimpers and moans Harry pours into his mouth. He feels _I can't believe they took me back_ in the slight upturn of Harry's lips and _I'm so glad you were there_ in the press of Harry's fingers into the skin on his back beneath his shirt. He hears _Fuck, I was so afraid_ in the whisper of his name between kisses and _Take me home_in the hum in his ear when Harry drags his tongue up Draco's neck.

Or perhaps he just imagines that last bit, but he's certain that if he doesn't Apparate them back to his flat right now, he's going to lose his ability to do so without serious risk of splinching. He wraps his arms around Harry tightly as he pulls away reluctantly from Harry's mouth and presses their foreheads together as he gathers his breath and senses. Luckily Harry seems to get the idea, and he ceases his delightful torment long enough for the twisting sensation to take them back to Draco's living room.

Draco barely has his feet beneath him before he feels himself being dragged to the ground amidst the pile of cushions they'd left there the night before.

"Harry," he laughs, "I have a bedroom you know."

"I know," Harry says, as they slide into the pillows, and kisses along Draco's jaw. "But I've been thinking about this all afternoon too, and your bedroom is just too far away. If you wanted to use it," he licks at a particularly sensitive spot at Draco's throat and Draco groans, "you should have Apparated us there."

Draco rolls his eyes, but, as has so frequently become the case when Harry's lips are involved, his sure-to-be-witty retort is cut short by a wave of pleasure and a groan, and he wonders just exactly when he lost his speech faculties completely.

Somewhere miles above sea level in Africa at moonrise, probably, which might make recovering them just a bit difficult.

Harry, it seems, isn't terribly interested in talking anyway, as he brings their lips back together. Draco can still taste and feel desperation in the kiss, and he's torn between wanting to soothe Harry and letting him take control. As the kiss grows deeper and messier and more breathless, he unconsciously gives in to the latter, partly because he thinks Harry needs it, and partly because he's being pressed so firmly into the cushions littering his floor that he doesn't think he could fight Harry off if he tried.

Not that he has any intention of trying.

Complete surrender comes shortly thereafter, when Harry nips at his bottom lip with his teeth to break the kiss and begins fumbling with the buttons on Draco's shirt. Harry applies first his lips, then his tongue to each bit of Draco's chest that is exposed as the shirt falls open, and Draco's head falls back into the pillows, eyes closed. He's barely aware of anything other than the hot, wet slide of Harry's mouth and the cool chill the air leaves in its wake as Harry licks and sucks his way down Draco's sternum and belly.

When every button is undone, Harry kisses his way back to suck first one, then the other nipple, biting down with his teeth hard enough to make Draco hiss before he pulls away and blows gently over the bruised flesh. Draco's skin all but crackles everywhere Harry touches, and it's an effort not to arch back up and beg for more kisses and bites. He tries to sit up, shrugging the shirt from his shoulders, but Harry pushes him back, meeting his hazy gaze with one of sharp intensity, and, vaguely remembering his surrender of control, Draco lets his body slide back into the cushions under Harry's palms.

Harry's mouth and hands are everywhere at once, covering every inch of exposed skin in a way that makes Draco wish there was both more and less of his touch, because he wants _more_, but Harry is nearly frenzied, and the contact is electric and overwhelming. He reaches up a trembling hand to run through Harry's hair, looking for something to ground him against the assault of attention he's enjoying so much but is almost ashamed not to be reciprocating.

At the first brush of his fingers across Harry's forehead, Harry stills, breath ragged and heavy and warm against Draco's chest, and he presses ever so slightly into Draco's palm as he slides it over wild, dark hair. Draco can feel him trembling too, and he slides his hand down slightly-stubbled cheeks to tip Harry's chin and bring their gazes together.

"Harry," he says, voice ragged.

He doesn't know what he meant to say, if anything, and it comes out as much as a plea as anything else. A plea for more, for less, for a glimpse into whatever Harry is thinking and feeling that's made him so desperate, so frenetic. Harry closes his eyes, draws in another deep, shuddering breath. Slides up Draco's torso and stares down into his eyes.

"Why is it so easy to feel like I fit _here_," Harry says, and lowers his lips to brush Draco's softly, "but like I'll never fit _out there_?"

Draco reaches up with his other hand, wrapping it around the back of Harry's neck and pulling him back down so their lips are almost together. He's thought about this, expected the question even, though perhaps not this soon, and his heart aches for Harry, but he thinks this is one fear he can dispel, just a bit.

"It's always been something with us," he says, almost without pause. "True, we're shagging instead of hexing now," Harry snorts and Draco smirks, "but the _something_has been there for twelve years. Easy to fall back into the something, you know?"

Harry considers this for a moment, then smiles softly. "You always have the answers, don't you?"

"Truthfully, Harry, I'm making most of this up as I go along," Draco says, surprised at his own honesty, though secretly a bit pleased that he's coming off more confident than he feels.

"Mmm," Harry says, and slides his hands back down over Draco's neck and shoulders. "'t's working well for you." He takes another deep breath. "I'll figure it out, I suppose. I knew I'd have to face them, but knowing it and doing it..."

Draco runs his fingers back through Harry's hair again, earning him a low groan of approval.

"_We'll_figure it out," he whispers, "it just might take some time."

Harry smiles again and kisses him, and this time the kiss is unhurried and sweet, and yet it leaves Draco no less aroused than the needy, desperate ones from moments before. Judging by the press of hardness against his thigh where Harry's body rests against his, he isn't the only one, and he groans appreciatively against Harry's lips when hands start roaming over his bare chest again.

He pulls at the bottom of Harry's shirt until it comes untucked from his trousers and makes far shorter work of the buttons than Harry had, pushing the shirt from Harry's shoulders and delighting in the unmistakable rush of heat that comes when their bare torsos touch. Harry pulls up a knee on either side of Draco's hips, wrapping his arms around Draco's back and pulling them both up to sitting. He slides Draco's shirt from his shoulders, never breaking their kiss as they move, and whimpers softly when their shift in positions brings their cocks together in a perfect slide.

Draco arches his hips up into Harry's, silently pleading for more, more anything, more _Harry_. A whispered spell against his lips leaves him suddenly chilled against the cool air of his flat and he realises Harry has vanished yet another pair of his trousers. The achingly perfect feeling of hot, hard flesh against his is the only thing that keeps Draco from shouting about inappropriate use of magic, and the smirk he feels on Harry's lips against his own brings a grin to his face in spite of himself.

"You're insane, Potter," he whispers with a breathless laugh that's cut off when Harry rolls his hips down again.

"Always have been," Harry rasps back, shifting so he can wrap his legs behind Draco, bringing them even closer together.

Draco runs his hands slowly up Harry's back, letting his fingertips dance across the bumps of his spine and ribs, and delighting in the shivers he feels beneath his touch. He stares up into Harry's flushed face, unable to find a single coherent thought besides _you're mine never leave should have always been like this_, and even less able to care. Dancing green eyes bore into his, and though Draco has gotten used to their intensity, he still can't help but think Harry is looking straight into his soul. He's never had a lover who could strip him so bare with just a look or touch, whose worries could twist him almost to breaking with his need to soothe or whose happiness was like a balm to wounds Draco never knew he had.

And yet he's so wrapped up in Harry Potter that he's not entirely sure where he ends and Harry starts, and he thinks that should scare him silly. But for now he can't concentrate on anything but Harry's eyes and his lips and _whatever_that grinding thing is that he's doing with his hips as he brings his knees back around to straddle Draco's lap and push him back to the floor.

Harry is in control again - really, Draco thinks, he always has been - but the uncertainty and desperation from before is gone. The soft edge to the lust in Harry's eyes makes the choice to trust him as easy as breathing. Draco hisses as Harry runs his fingernails down his chest and over already-sensitive nipples and down over his belly before _finally_reaching down to grasp Draco's cock. The too-slow-perfect slide of Harry's palm is too much and not enough, and Draco reaches up to slide his own shaking hands over Harry's thighs, desperately searching for anything to distract him from coming too soon.

"What do you want?" Harry tightens his grip ever so slightly as he asks, and Draco whimpers and tries to push up into his grip.

"I don't...gods, Harry..." Draco is both amused and irritated with himself for his complete inability to speak, but as he looks up over the taut lines of the muscles in Harry's torso and the angular lines of his jaw before their eyes meet again, he finds the only word that matters deep down somewhere in that _curlsmolder _place in his chest. "You."

Harry doesn't say a word, just looks down into Draco's eyes as if searching for a moment longer before nodding to himself and muttering whispered words that send a phial of oil clattering out of a drawer from another room and flying into Harry's outstretched hand. Draco's cock twitches in Harry's hand at the suggestion the bottle brings, but that's nothing compared to his body's response when Harry pours the contents over his hands and reaches behind himself, all the while sliding a slick palm over Draco's erection.

"_Fuck_," he hisses, wishing he could _see_just what Harry is doing to himself, but he contents himself with watching Harry bite his lip and gasp and listening to their mingled whimpers and groans and losing himself in Harry's touch.

After what could be minutes or seconds or hours, Harry rises up on his knees and replaces his fingers with Draco's cock, sliding down slowly and never tearing his eyes from Draco's. If Draco thought he was in danger of coming too soon in Harry's hand, he's reached mortal peril now, lost in the sight of Harry perched above him and the feeling of the hot, tight slide around his cock as Harry moves. He thrusts up, pushing as far inside Harry as he can, barely mindful of the whispered profanities and sweet words slipping from both their lips. He won't last long, and from the furrow in Harry's brow and the sheen of sweat on his skin and the quickening of his hand on his own cock, he's not alone.

"Merlin, Draco, you feel so fucking good," Harry rasps, his breath quickening and his words cutting off with a groan as Draco snaps his hips up harder, faster, again and again, because fuck he's _close_. He stares up at Harry, watching a bead of sweat slide down his forehead and over the bridge of his nose, watching tension ripple through shoulder muscles as Harry levers forward to put a hand on one side of Draco's head and lowers his head for a searing, breathless kiss.

Again and again Draco thrusts up against Harry as he slides up and down, his movements becoming less rhythmic as his pants become more ragged and their kisses grow sloppy and rough with need. Harry whimpers and takes his cock in his hand, squeezing and twisting and stroking faster and faster as they move together. The sight is intoxicating, and Draco can't help his own need to touch, reaching up and covering Harry's sticky-slick fingers with his own and dragging his thumb over the tip of Harry's cock deliberately. Harry inhales sharply, pushing against Draco's rhythm and their clasped hands until he comes over Draco's belly as he whispers, "_Draco gods yes DracoDracoDraco..._"

He doesn't know if it's the sound of his name spilling over and over from Harry's lips or the clenched muscles around his cock or the sight of Harry's release covering their fingers, but after only a few more thrusts, Draco is coming too, eyes rolling back against the blinding white of his orgasm and stomach muscles spasming in wave after wave of pleasure. He thinks he cries out Harry's name, and he thinks he digs his fingernails into Harry's back as Harry slumps down over him, but he's too wracked by the intensity of the sensations shooting from his cock all the way into his fingers and toes.

"Why can't it always be like this?" Harry mumbles softly into Draco's neck as they lie there, chests and backs heaving. "You and me, it's so simple..."

Draco closes his eyes, Harry's words from earlier echoing in his mind. _Why is it so easy to feel like I fit here but like I'll never fit out there? _He doesn't truly have an answer, for that question or for this one, so he tightens his arms around Harry's back and presses shaking lips to his temple, hoping that silent comfort will do in the absence of a response.

Harry says nothing else, and eventually their breathing returns to normal and a softly whispered spell from Harry vanishes all traces of their release in a cool, tingling wave. Another mumbled word summons blankets from Draco's room to cover them where they lie, and Harry only barely slides off Draco's chest, burying his head into the crook of his arms and clutching at his ribs so hard it almost hurts. He still hasn't spoken, but before long Draco hears his breathing become slow and even.

Sleep eludes Draco for hours, tired as he is from the excitement of the day and the residual effects of two weeks' travel. Harry's words clatter around in his mind noisily, tipping off other thoughts as it does until his head feels like it's filled by the din, and it isn't until much later that he drifts off into a troubled, restless doze. His only solace comes from the reassuring weight of Harry, who is still clinging to him, even in sleep, and at last he drifts off.

When the nightmares come later and Draco wakes, shaking and clammy, the image of Harry's face laughing down at him as the flames rose and flared and consumed him is seared into his mind. Harry stirs but doesn't awaken, and Draco rubs a trembling hand over his eyes. He thinks about waking Harry, but dismisses the idea as quickly as it comes. Wake him for what? So he can rehash the same dream he's had thousands of times, and then add that this time, the face that gleefully left him in the flames belonged to the man in his arms instead of one of his father's cronies or the Dark Lord himself?

Loads of good that would do Harry after only a day back in London. No, he can cope with the nightmares. He's not even terribly surprised they've returned; it's been too many days, too many quiet nights free from terror, and he was due.

Draco lets out a ragged breath and contents himself with tightening his arms around Harry's warm back. He can't quite contain the smile when Harry - strong, brave, Saviour-of-the-World Harry Potter - nuzzles his face into his shoulder like a child, completely at odds with the cruel, hard face in Draco's dream. A quiet admonition not to overthink a night terror is followed by a slide into an uneasy but mercifully nightmare-free sleep, and for that and for Harry's unknowingly comforting presence, Draco is grateful.


	4. Chapter 4

_To those of you who have read and reviewed, thank you! I know we're a bit delayed here; life happened. I've glared it into submission for the near future, so I hope not to repeat the delay again._

_All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. No copyright infringement intended._

* * *

><p>When Draco wakes, he notices several things all at once. He is, lamentably, still on his living room floor, which has turned more than a bit chilly in the early hours of the morning, and which is nowhere near as comfortable as his bed. His discomfort is somewhat tempered by the simultaneous realisation that Harry is still wrapped around him like a quilt, all arms and legs and warm, soft skin, and he smiles and tries to move so that even more of his body is covered by Harry's.<p>

It's the dull, scratchy irritation behind his eyelids and the light pounding in his head that give him pause though. The telltale sign of the nightmares is impossible to ignore, and he shudders as the image of Harry laughing down at him in as the Fiendfyre began to lick at his cloak comes rushing back into his head.

_Just a stupid dream_, he reminds himself, taking deep, even breaths and focusing instead on the soothing feeling of Harry's skin against his. _It's not real. You got out. He got you out and now he's here and it's not real. He didn't leave you then. He won't leave you now._

_Will he?_

Draco shakes his head at the niggling question in the back of his mind. It's been there all along, and he knows better than to indulge it in the face of the terror of his nightmares. Still, Harry left once before, and he'd had no other life to run to then. Who's to say he won't miss the life he left behind in Africa so much that he decides staying isn't worth giving that up?

A subtle change in Harry's breathing and the press of his cheek into Draco's neck ends that line of thinking before it can go any further – _thank Merlin – _and Draco finds himself peering into sleepy green eyes that light up just a bit when they meet Draco's. The warmth in Harry's gaze is a soothing balm to Draco's nightmare-frayed nerves, and he relaxes into Harry's tightening grip.

"Hi," Harry says, smiling crookedly and Draco is transported back a week to a sun-drenched tent on a mountainside in Africa, when _hi_had been the only word he could muster after their first night together.

"Hi indeed," he smiles back and hums appreciatively as Harry softly kisses beneath his jaw. For a moment.

"You're going to have to stop that," he struggles to suppress his groan as the kisses become slightly less soft and slightly more..._purposeful_.

"Why?" Harry whispers into Draco's neck, and Draco barely manages to reach down and grasp Harry's roaming hands with his own before they stop his protests mid-stream.

"Mmmm that's...Merlin you're distracting!" Draco resorts to putting a hand on Harry's head to gently but firmly push him away, and tries in vain to wriggle just an inch or two away from those wonderfully evil kisses. Not that he really wants to, mind. Harry huffs indignantly, and Draco rolls his eyes.

"Work, Potter," he says, pleased to note that some of the breathiness has left his voice. "I have to go back to _work_. To pay your company for my ridiculously expensive holiday, if you must know."

Harry, who has dodged Draco's batting hands and is in the process of applying his tongue to the hollow above Draco's collarbone in the most distracting fashion, snorts and pulls away. And Draco curses the part of himself that is disappointed that he's done so.

"Come on," he says, rolling his eyes, "you can't possibly need the money that badly, you're still a Malfoy after all. Besides, don't you own the company?"

Draco flicks his ear, and Harry yelps.

"Yes, you insufferable prat, I do own the company, which is why I need to go to work. To make sure my employees remember who their boss is, among other things." Harry pulls a face at him. "Besides, you own _your_ business, and last I checked, it's not as though _you_can just skive off work whenever you like. Why do you expect it's different for me?"

"I hate to state the bloody obvious, Draco," Harry huffs, and Draco takes advantage of the moment to disentangle their legs and begin to sit up, rolling muscles stiff from a night on his living room floor. "But I think that since my business is in Tanzania, and I'm currently _here_," Harry scrambles up beside him and nips at his earlobe, making Draco groan, "I'm the reigning authority in this situation on skiving off work whenever I like."

Draco rolls his eyes, though Harry has a point. Not that he plans to admit to that.

"You didn't have clients for weeks, you said so yourself. And I may be a Malfoy, but perhaps you've forgotten that name doesn't carry the weight it once did," he says, a little more subdued, because it's taken him five years to make his own name, and the Ministry, among others, has been none-too-helpful. The Malfoy family vaults were seized after the war, and although they were ultimately restored to Draco after he was cleared of all crimes, reparations were costly for his father's actions, and it had cost him a fair few galleons in _donations_to get much of Wizarding London to turn a favorable face on Draco Malfoy, businessman.

Even if his business was, as Harry so generously put it, _playing in the dirt._

Harry looks momentarily sheepish, and Draco smiles to soften the impact of his words. It's not Harry's fault, after all. In fact, Harry's testimony was the reason Draco didn't end up rotting in Azkaban with the rest of the Death Eaters, but more pressingly, Harry's disappearing act was the only reason he ended up in the good graces of the rest of the wizarding world's war heroes. Without Hermione and Ron and eventually the rest of the members of the one-time Order, he would, at best, be wandering aimlessly around the Manor, having tea with his mother and not talking about why the once-vibrant house hadn't seen a friendly visitor in nearly a decade.

At worst, he'd be in Azkaban for a trumped-up crime he didn't commit at the hands of overzealous wizards whose greatest wish it is to rid the world of everyone with ties to the Death Eaters. He shivers in spite of himself at the thought.

"Come on," he says, groaning a bit as he stands and stretches. "I've been awake too long without coffee."

Harry snorts and lets Draco pull him to his feet, and they make their way to the kitchen wrapped in blankets plucked from their makeshift bed on the floor. Harry makes the coffee and Draco lets him, sliding up on his counter to watch as Harry rummages through cupboards as though he's been doing it for years. The thought makes him smile, even if he knows it's silly, and he indulges it, because it feels good to really smile.

_Draco Malfoy, you are such a sap_.

He takes a steaming cup from Harry gratefully, closing his eyes and inhaling the steam and almost forgetting that Harry is watching him. Almost.

"Do you always do that?" Harry's voice is amused, and when Draco opens his eyes, he sees crinkles around green eyes that are dancing with mischief.

"I suppose I do, Potter," he says haughtily. "I told you before, I'm not going to apologise for enjoying my coffee."

Harry smirks.

"I wouldn't ask you to apologise for enjoying it, nor even for the _way_ you enjoy it, even though the look on your face is positively sinful. And before you deny it, please keep in mind that I _do_know what sinful looks like on you."

Draco scowls, the effect probably somewhat dampened by the flush he feels blooming on his face at the image Harry's words conjure in his head. Harry steps closer to him, parting Draco's knees with his hands so he can stand between them, and grins. And as much as Draco tries, he can't hold the scowl any longer. When he smiles back, Harry leans in and kisses him, and Draco forgets why he was scowling at all.

_Such a fucking sap._

As they shuffle around the kitchen after that, Draco begins to think he's going to need to start his work mornings quite a lot earlier than he used to. It seems coffee is not done without a healthy dose of kissing. Toast and jam apparently also inspire quite a lot of the same, as well as some slightly filthier activities involving Harry sucking on Draco's fingers in a way that makes his knees threaten to collapse. And all the kissing and licking and finger-sucking over breakfast make other parts of him interested in more than just getting clean in the shower, and they once again test the limits of Draco's hot water before finally emerging to dress.

Draco tugs on worn jeans and a shirt far more reminiscent of Harry's old wardrobe than his own, and he grins when he catches Harry looking at him in surprise.

"What, did you think I'd go _play in the dirt_in cashmere and wool?" Harry snorts and Draco rolls his eyes. "Did I dress like a Pureblood snob on your bloody mountain? I have learned a few things since Hogwarts, believe it or not. Not the least of which is that fine fabrics are a right pain in the arse to clean. And yes, you git, before you say anything, I do know how to wash my own clothes. Properly. The Muggle way. Molly saw to that years ago."

Harry just shakes his head, still smiling, and Draco can't resist the urge to stick out his tongue as Harry walks into the bathroom, still wearing only the towel he'd wrapped around his waist earlier. It hung low on his bare torso, and with every step he took, it slipped even lower, and Draco had to mentally slap himself when he realised he was staring.

"And put some clothes on, you bloody exhibitionist! You can't come to work with me dressed like you're off to a toga party!"

Harry holds up two fingers over his shoulder in response, then promptly lets the towel drop to the floor. He catches Draco's eye in the mirror and grins cheekily around his toothbrush, and Draco glares and tries very hard not to look back down at his exposed arse.

Tries, and fails.

"Merlin's bloody beard, Potter, I'm going to end up in the poor house and it will be all your fault. I can see it now: _Draco Malfoy Destitute: Former Death Eater loses business and fortune; blames The Chosen Arse_." He's muttering and he knows Harry can't hear him, especially not as he throws his hands up and stalks out into the living room, trying to will away any thoughts of arousal.

He's still muttering a few minutes later when Harry emerges, thankfully fully-clothed.

"You're sure you don't mind me tagging along today?" Harry asks casually, and Draco would believe it an innocent question if it wasn't at least the fifth time Harry's asked since they returned to London.

"For the last time, of course I don't, or I wouldn't have asked you to come in the first place!" He huffs. "It's not going to be terribly glamourous or exciting; I have a couple of deliveries that came in while I was away, and a new client whose site I want to inspect before the day's out, but it's not as though you'll be in the way."

"Only if you're sure..." Harry trails off and Draco grasps him by the shoulders.

"What's this about, really?" he asks softly. "Do you not want to come? You can stay, if you want. Or go to Grimmauld Place. Or the Burrow, if you'd rather?"

Harry is shaking his head, and he bites his lip before answering.

"No, I want to come, truly," he says, and Draco feels a bit of tension he didn't know he was holding slide free from his shoulders. "It's just... Do you think anyone will recognise me?"

Draco sighs and shrugs.

"Honestly, I've no idea. We're going to a Muggle house this morning, and none of my staff will be there, so you don't run much risk of being seen, but I can't speak for later, once we're back in the Wizarding Quarter."

Harry nods and gulps, and Draco is torn between wanting to shelter him and wanting to throw him into the middle of Diagon Alley and scream, "look who's back!" at the top of his voice, just to get it over with. He doesn't tell Harry as much, of course.

"You're going to be seen eventually," he tries instead. "If there's anyone you want to know you're here before it's on the front page of _The Prophet_, then I think you'd best make your presence known to them soon. It's only a matter of time."

It's Harry's turn to sigh, and he drops his head to Draco's shoulder for just a moment. He mumbles something, and Draco chuckles in spite of himself.

"You'll have to repeat that to something other than my neck if you want me to hear it," he says playfully.

Harry sighs and looks up. "I said, remind me why I left again? I should have known I'd come back one day. I could have made this easier on myself."

Draco snorts and begins tying his boots. "Harry, honestly, you were a teenager. We're barely more than that _now_, if you haven't noticed, though I'll venture to say we've learned a thing or two since then. Still, very little we did in our youths was meant to make things easier on ourselves today. Very little we did back then made things easier an hour after we did it, if you really think about it."

Harry raises his eyebrows and almost laughs, and Draco knows the moment of panic has passed. He's at the same time pleased and a little alarmed that he can detect the ebbs and flows of Harry's more volatile moods, though if he considers it, he supposes even those haven't changed too much since Hogwarts.

And if there's one thing Draco Malfoy knew as well as he knew himself during his time at Hogwarts, it was Harry Potter.

When he looks up, Harry's uncertainty has been replaced by a look of determination that's only slightly tinged with worry, and he nods.

"Ready," he says, and follows Draco out the door into the crisp morning air.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Several hours later, after Draco has assured a fretful but excited woman by the name of Mrs. Lindley that no, his staff will not dig up her rosebushes or her prize tomatoes when her new trees are planted in the spring, and that yes, he will drop by again to meet Mr. Lindley before that time, he and Harry stroll down a quiet street in Muggle London. Harry is grinning, asking Draco a thousand questions about trees and plants and clients, and the hesitation of the morning is all but gone in his face and step.

"You can't mean you plant magical stuff in Muggle gardens, Draco, how do they care for them?" Harry asks incredulously, and Draco grins.

"Only those clients that are wealthy enough to keep us on after to do maintenance," he says. "And even then, we have to choose very carefully. One of my unfortunate colleagues once planted a cluster of Mandrakes in a Muggle garden." Harry's face turns to one of gleeful horror as Draco shakes his head ruefully at the memory. "The wife went out one day to weed the garden and accidentally grabbed one by the stalk. She fainted on the spot when she pulled it out of the ground."

"Who found her?" Harry asks, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter. The effects of young Mandrakes were well-known to all Hogwarts students, but especially to their own class, since the healing effects had become so important not long after they began studying them.

"A squib, as it happens," Draco chuckles. "Which is probably the only reason the whole block didn't have to be subjected to Obliviation. One of her neighbors heard the racket and recognised the sound from stories her mum used to tell her about wizarding plants. She found a pair of earmuffs and went out to find the woman flat on her face in her garden. They told her she fainted from the heat when she woke up."

"What about the rest of the plants?" Harry manages to gasp out between peals of laughter.  
>"They took the woman to the hospital for observation of course, and my colleague got a Howler from the Ministry that informed him in no uncertain terms that he would lose his license to sell to Muggles if he didn't have them replaced before she came home." Draco laughs again. "Even I was up to my elbows in dirt digging up plants that day. We had about half an hour."<p>

"You helped? Why?" Harry asks, and Draco rolls his eyes.

"Yes, Potter, I'm not entirely selfish. It's bad for business if the Ministry starts worrying about letting us work in Muggle London. If something happens, we help one another out when we can." Harry shrugs and smirks. "Besides, the fellow happened to be a friend of mine. If I hadn't helped him, I'd have been buying him pints for a week while he moaned about losing the work and corrupting unsuspecting Muggles."

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" Harry asks, nudging Draco with his shoulder as they round a corner into an alleyway that's suitable for Apparition.

Draco puts an arm around Harry's waist and rolls his eyes playfully before kissing Harry lightly on the lips.

"I think you'll find I'm really rather predictable," he says.

"I used to think so," Harry says, studying him more closely, "but you seem to take delight in keeping me guessing."

"Someone has to keep you on your toes, Chosen One," Draco smirks and they Apparate away before Harry can finish telling Draco where he can shove his surprises.

When they reappear in Draco's office with a loud crack, any attempt Harry tries to make to continue his conversation is abruptly cut off by a loud, mumbling voice coming towards them from another room, and Draco closes his eyes.

Harry is going to kill him.

"Malfoy, that you? Good, you're finally back, listen, about this new account, I was thinking since it's an old Pureblood family you probably should go and talk to- _bloody buggering hell_!"

"Afternoon, Longbottom," Draco says to his office partner, who has just tripped over his own very large feet and is gaping at Harry. Draco studiously looks anywhere but at Harry, who he can feel staring daggers into his skull, and tries to go on with nonchalance he definitely doesn't feel. "Yes, I thought I'd head over there this afternoon, is that their file?"

He gestures vaguely to the fluttering scraps of parchment falling to the floor from Neville's now-empty hands and tries to ignore the tension in the room. Which is very nearly impossible, since he's also discovered that when Harry is upset, his magic tends to react. A lot.

He sighs. Waits.

"Harry?" Neville finally finds his voice, though Draco can't tell by his tone or his face whether he's pleased to see Harry or not. "Is that...are you...Draco, what the..._Harry_?"

It becomes evident after a prolonged and awkward pause that Harry hasn't gathered his wits enough to answer, and Draco can't take it anymore. He grits his teeth.

"Yes, Neville, it's Harry," he says, as kindly as he can because really, it's not Longbottom's fault he's caught unawares. It's not Harry's either, though Draco would appreciate some sign that The Boy Who Lived still does, in fact, live, because as this moment, Draco isn't even sure Harry is breathing. "He's been in...well, he and I...oh sod it all, he was the guide on our trip and one thing led to another and he's come back with me. Us. Me. Whatever."

Draco is glad Neville is mostly still gaping at Harry so he doesn't notice the flush that accompanies his last stammered words.

"Africa?" Neville asks, and Draco is reminded for a split second of the unsure boy Longbottom used to be as he blinks in confusion. Until he goes on, suddenly sounding exactly like the confident man Draco knows him to be now. "I'm sorry, Harry, I don't understand...you left and went to _Africa_? For _five years_? And you couldn't be bothered to, I don't know, owl or something?"

Draco sucks in a breath and looks at Harry, whose face is stony and blank. _Fuck_.

"Nev, do me a favor and give us a minute, will you? I'll explain the rest in a minute, just...please?" Draco looks hard at his friend, willing him to understand.

He does, of course, because just like everyone else, Nev has changed a great deal since the war. He changed a great deal before it ended, as it happened, maybe more than anyone, and Draco thinks that's why he was so quick to befriend a Malfoy even after everything Draco put him through as a child. He'd been grateful for Hermione's staunch defense, and surprised at Ron's begrudging acceptance, but it was Nev who'd truly humbled him.

He'd been sitting at the table at Grimmauld Place, a little away from the others, though closer to Ron and Hermione, perhaps a fortnight after Harry's mysterious disappearance. Neville walked in, clad all in black with a somber expression - another funeral, Draco knew without having to ask - and caught sight of Draco at the table. He'd stopped short for only a split second, nodding to himself, then crossed the rest of the distance between them and put out a hand.

"Malfoy," he said, voice clear and steady.

Draco didn't hesitate, having learned by that time that any hand offered in friendship after all that he'd done was a hand worth taking, a step toward redemption he never thought he'd earn. That had been the end of it, more or less. When Draco left with Ron and Hermione to search for Harry, Nev stayed in London, gracefully and subtly filling the role of war hero in a world that desperately needed one. He went to functions and charities and benefits, and even gave the odd speech or two.

Their cautious attempt at real friendship had started because of a Ministry gala, in fact, just before they left London and started on the wild goose chase all over Europe in search of Harry. Nev asked Draco's advice on formal attire, something Draco was certain Hermione put him up to, and it worked just as he was sure her calculating little mind intended. A few mild ribs at Neville's fashion sense - which, Draco admitted shortly thereafter, was really not that bad anyway - and a few retorts about poncy Purebloods from Neville that had no real bite behind them, and the past seemed to just fall away.

It didn't hurt that Nev had never looked better. He knew it, Draco knew it, and every witch and half the wizards at the gala that night knew it. Draco teasingly told him years later it was fortunate he knew even then that Nev was straight as an arrow, or things might have taken a wholly different turn in the dressing room at Madam Malkin's. To his credit, Neville had only looked straight-faced over his glass of very expensive firewhiskey and told Draco he was more than even a Malfoy could handle. Then they both burst into a fit of near-giggles so ridiculous that they'd ended up leaning on one another and nearly crying in the middle of a very posh restaurant until the waiter politely but firmly informed them that they'd be getting no more drinks from him that evening.

They started working together a week later.

They never talked about school or the war, they still don't. Not because either is avoiding it, but because Draco thinks Neville is just as happy not to be the pudgy, fumbling boy from their school days as Draco is to be anything other than "that Death Eater Malfoy boy." Neville is a genius with growing and tending plants of all kinds, and Draco has an eye for where to put them, and between the two of them, they do a hell of a business.

Draco just apparently forgot to mention that bit to Harry, who is now standing in the middle of Draco's office with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes as hard as stone. Draco sighs and faces him, taking the risk of standing close enough to touch, but electing to keep his hands in his pockets for now.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" Harry hisses as soon as the door closes behind a retreating - and still gaping - Neville.

Draco sighs. "Honestly, Harry, it didn't occur to me, because he's rarely here. Besides, he was your friend, and he's still Ron's and Hermione's, and Ginny's and Wood's, now I mention it. He'd have known before the day was out, so what's it matter?"

Harry grits his teeth, and Draco is starting to feel an indignant flush crawling up his neck, because he's not entirely certain he's the only person in the wrong here.

"It matters," Harry says, "because I wasn't ready. It matters because every person I see is another person I hurt. It's another person I let down. It's another person I have to apologise to, and I had no idea when I came in here that I'd encounter another one of those people!"

Somewhere in Harry's diatribe, Draco has gone from reluctant indignance to scorn. He knows - he _knows_- he should keep his mouth shut, but he's never been good at walking away.

"Merlin, Potter, you act as though the wizarding world has been mourning your absence day in and day out for five years, and you owe them all recompense for some sort of Saviourless paralysis." Draco spits, unable to even flinch at the hurt that crosses Harry's face at the use of his surname. "You left, remember? You left, and we picked up the pieces and moved on without you, because what else were we supposed to do? The three of us searched long after everyone else gave up on you, but the point is, life went on. We got jobs and had lovers and made friends, and we did it all without the great Harry Potter to show us the way! Forgive me for being so lucky as to have a life of my own that I forgot that one little bit of it might cause you a moment's discomfort!"

He's out of breath when he finishes, and already a little ashamed of himself, but Nev is his friend too, and he'll be damned if he's going to apologise to Harry for being proud of what he's accomplished in five years.

"Fuck you, Draco," Harry says quietly. "You know perfectly well that's not what I meant."

"Perhaps not," Draco says, voice cold. "But it's what it sounded like to me. You needn't act like everyone is going to expect you to grovel at their feet. Nev missed you. Ron and Hermione missed you. The Weasleys and Finnegan and Thomas and McGonagall and everyone who knows you missed you." He takes a deep breath, trying to find calm.

Trying, and failing, because _fuck,_he really didn't want to do this today. Or ever. Still, he softens his voice, hoping to see the same effect in Harry's eyes when he speaks again.

"_I_ missed you. But we had to make lives for ourselves, and mine includes Nev. In my office. It also includes weekly drinks with whoever can be arsed to show up at whatever pub Ron's Auror mates drag us to. It includes my irritating friends and your irritating friends and _our_ sometimes-irritating friends having horrible dinner parties with bad liquor and worse food on a moment's notice. It includes pick-up Quidditch and holidays together. And it includes ridiculous shopping trips with Parkinson and Hermione, which usually end in screeching laughter at my expense when they try to force me into clothing that the Muggles call _metrosexual_."

Harry finally cracks a little, the corner of his mouth quirking at Draco's last, and Draco relaxes just a bit. He's still standing in front of Harry, close enough to see the lingering flush brought on by Draco's angry words. Cautiously, tentatively, he takes one hand from his pocket and slides it across Harry's tightly crossed forearms, asking without words for the worst of it to be over.

Harry lets his arms fall, reaching out with the one Draco is still touching so that their fingers catch just barely against each other. Draco sucks in a breath.

"They're...they're my family, Harry, the whole dysfunctional lot of them, and I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about Nev. He's just...he's a part of this place," Draco gestures vaguely around his office, "as much as I am, and I honestly wasn't trying catch you unawares. I just...I didn't think."

Harry is silent, and the only reassurance Draco has is the press of calloused fingertips against his, but he's clinging to it. After a moment, those fingertips slide forward, pulling their hands tight together and Harry squeezes his fingers and nods. The hardness has gone out of Harry's eyes, but before Draco can speak, Harry turns his head slightly towards the closed door.

"Hey Neville!" He calls, and Draco jumps. "Mind coming back in here for a minute, mate?"

_"I'm sorry,"_Harry mouths to Draco and squeezes his hand once more before letting go, and Draco gives him a small, slightly confused smile as the door opens to reveal a still-perplexed-but-no-longer-gaping Neville.

Harry crosses the floor and puts out a hand. "It's good to see you, mate," he says quietly, a touch of uncertainty in his voice. "I'm sorry I didn't say so before, I was just caught off guard."

Nev, being Nev, slowly reaches out to shake the offered hand, but Draco knows him well enough to know he's reserving judgement until Harry offers some kind of explanation.

"I should have, how did you put it? Sent an owl?" Harry grins ruefully. "I can only chalk it up to being stubborn, I suppose, and thinking I knew what was best for everyone as usual."

"And being wrong," Nev says, but Draco hears no malice in it.

Harry nods and smiles. "As usual."

Nev snorts and claps Harry on the shoulder. "Welcome back then," he says, and it's Harry's turn to gape.

"You thought this one would be hard to convince, Potter?" Draco says, mock-derision in his voice that is completely undone by the delighted smile on his face. Harry looks at him. "Longbottom saw fit to go into business with _me,_even after...well. You know." Nev shoots him a look and a smile that he returns, once again not really talking about the past, and not needing to. "He's passed you on the list for sainthood long ago."

Nev laughs then, and Draco joins him. After a moment, Harry chuckles too, and he and Neville slide into conversation about Harry's business and the mountain while Draco eyes the stack of unopened post and missed firecalls on his desk. He sighs.

_Why does anyone ever go on holiday?_ He thinks, shaking his head. _They must all be mad!_

Neville excuses himself for a few minutes to take a call, and Harry gently closes the door behind him before walking back to stand behind Draco, winding his arms around Draco's waist and pressing still-chapped lips to the skin at the back of his neck with another muttered "_I'm sorry_."

It's a bandage over a wound that's not yet healed, on both their parts, and something in the room has changed, but Draco is relieved that they've gotten this first little argument out of the way. There will be time later to say more, to be more careful, to learn how the other thinks.

For now though, Draco drops the parchment he'd been reading back to the desk and twists in Harry's arms with an equally quiet _"me, too."_Their lips meet softly, and it's a different kiss than they've yet shared. Not full of promise or potential, or charged with sparks and desperation. It's only about this moment, making sure they've found their way back after wandering off the path for just a moment before.

And as Harry's arms tighten around Draco's waist and his lips brush over Draco's, Draco answers his own question.

He doesn't give a damn about anyone else, but if this is the madness that comes from going on holiday, he's more than happy to accept it.


End file.
